


Sing Me That Old Song Again

by mariana_oconnor



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Bucky Barnes's Plums, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Road Trips, Sort Of, What Happened in Budapest, Winterhawk Reverse Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 05:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12976866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: After breaking free from Hydra's control, James Barnes is keeping his head down. Captain America and his team are miles away, and he's better off alone. He's not expecting to be found by an Avenger. An Avenger who proves hard to get rid of.Somehow, in spite of himself, Hawkeye ends up growing on him, and he realises that maybe alone isn't the best way to be.But as Bucky's working out his own past, Hawkeye's coming face to face with his. They never should have gone to Budapest.





	Sing Me That Old Song Again

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/344301) by cratercreator. 



> Wow, OK. I feel like the awesome [art](http://cratercreator.tumblr.com/post/168368038277/this-is-for-the-fabulous-winterhawk-minibang-i) by cratercreator deserves another fifty thousand words of fic, but I tried my best. I hope you enjoy this.

The stairs up to his apartment are dingy, cracked tiles and stains from long use, but they’re clean in spite of that. He’s been here for two weeks and it reminds him of somewhere he hasn’t quite remembered yet. Another apartment, another time, when you might not have much, but what you had was clean. Shirts that were worn almost paper thin, but they were washed once a week like clockwork. He remembers the turn of a mangle, the sound of water dripping out. Washing day was sacred. Rain or shine.

He remembers a hand scrubbing behind his ears with a big bar of soap. He remembers the smell of it, clear as anything, in his nostrils and he swears a little, faltering on the stairs. Smells are so hard to describe and write down. The images he can put down in ink, to make sure they don’t escape him again. The words he hears he can write down verbatim and keep in his notebooks, but smells. There aren’t words in the language to describe them properly.

The words that come with the scent, though, those are clear. A boy’s voice.

_“Ma, I’m clean already. Don’t see the point anyways. I’m only gonna get dirty again,”_ the sound of it accompanied by the phantom feeling of a cuff around his ear for his cheek.

His ear. His cheek. His voice.

He pauses on the stair again, caught in the idea. The voice was too high, definitely a child’s. His mouth forms the words as he remembers them. He was a boy once. He too was a child. Like the children he sees in the streets. Like the little girl who lives with her worn out parents on the top floor. It has always seemed as if he was forged in the chair, pieced together like the plates of his left arm, just separate parts stuck together by the doctors.

The fingers of his metal hand are clenching together, hard enough that he can hear the sound of metal on metal. He doesn’t know what his face must look like, but apparently it’s not very friendly, as, when he blinks out of the memory, the girl who lives opposite him is staring, fixed on the stairs as though pinned by fright.

Theoretically, he understands smiling. The muscle movements are simple. The action is performed by people of all ages, sometimes involuntarily. But all his attempts so far have only served to alarm rather than reassure. So he doesn’t even bother to try, just grunts _scuze_ and continues up the stairs, his eyes cast down. The girl doesn’t need anyone else to be scared of. He can hear the arguments every evening, and he can see the bruises. No one ever does anything about it.

That’s one of the reasons he chose this place, though. No one looks twice at him. They don’t look at each other either. They mind their own business, and even if they did start getting curious, no one’s looking for the Winter Soldier. He doubts they even know the name.

He unlocks his door, automatically checking the place but nothing is a hair out of position and he lets out a sigh he didn’t know he had in his throat.

He puts away the food he bought before opening his backpack to pull out his most recent notebook, taking a minute to look at the first page and stroke his fingers over the words there like he always does.

The first words in all of the notebooks are the same. They are not a memory… not really. But they are words that he feels are important.

He reads them in his head again, frowning.

_‘Your name is James Buchanan Barnes_.’

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he says to himself. The name still doesn’t fit right, like a sweater that’s been stretched by someone too big for it. It’s familiar in the way a lot of things are familiar, but it doesn’t feel like it’s his.

His face spasms a bit in irritation, and he lets out a huff before turning quickly to the next blank page and beginning to write in sketchy, spidery handwriting. He is writing English today. Sometimes he writes in Russian.  He writes the things he just remembered on the stairs, grimacing at the attempts to describe the smell of the soap.  It’s just snippets of sentences that he writes down, not some epic, but it’s enough. It conveys the feeling of his ears being bent forward as the hand scrubs, and the way he remembers fidgeting in discomfort. It conveys the feeling that came with the memory, of irritation but also of safety.

It’s a strange feeling; he doesn’t remember having felt it outside of these memory fragments. He remembers feeling just as though nothing could touch him. The hand is rough, but he isn’t frightened of it. The cuff around the ear hurts, but the feeling that accompanies it isn’t negative.

He finishes writing his memory and starts to make his meal for the evening on his small camping stove. He can’t see out of the windows because of the newspaper he’s stuck over them – lines of sight must be blocked – but the quality of the light tells him that the sun is setting; everything is a little more golden.

The newspaper reminded him of shoes when he put it up. It’s written in his third notebook.

The meal has protein, vitamins and carbohydrates, the correct balance to keep him operating efficiently, and he scoops it from his single plate into his mouth automatically. Chew chew. Swallow.

Scoop. Chew chew. Swallow.

He eats every scrap, because wasted food is inefficient, and then he turns to the other small paper bag he bought and eyes it with suspicion.

He doesn’t know why he bought them, but he had seen them and felt like he wanted them. It has been months since he was last strapped into the chair, but every want comes with a certain suspicion to it still. He is not supposed to want things. He has needs, not desires, and his needs are met. He has shelter; he has eaten a nutritious meal. He is clothed. He is uninjured.

He reaches over to the paper bag with his metal hand, aware that he is frowning at it.

He unfurls the top of it and tips the contents out onto his flesh and blood palm.

Two plums.

The colour appeals to him, a rich purple. It’s not a colour he’s seen much of, that he can remember anyway, and they still have the slight powdery sheen to them. He picks one up and holds it into the golden light where it shines a little.

His arm moves almost of its own volition and begins to polish it on his sweater and when he holds it up again there’s a patch that shines more brightly than the rest.

He raises the fruit to his lips and his eyes close as he bites into it.

It’s tart, sharp in his mouth as the juice bursts. It’s a little firm, but a trickle of juice still escapes out of the corner of his lips. Unconsciously he wipes it off with the sleeve of his top and his brain is caught again on a memory.

This had been a treat, once. He remembers a man, broad shouldered, tossing him a paper bag with a grin, and small hands reaching up to him.

He had… passed them out to people… smaller people…

Sticky hands.

He doesn’t realise that he’s eaten both of the plums until his teeth bite down on the hard stone of the second one.

The two stones nestle in his palm, slimy and brown, and he feels a strange urge to keep them, but they are pointless. He throws them into the small bin on the other side of the room and then looks at his hands, covered in plum juice, and brings his fingers up to his mouth. He should wash them, but instead, he dips his head down and licks a stripe up his palm.

He huffs again, but it isn’t with irritation this time. It takes him a second, but as he’s pushing his fingers into his mouth, his tongue swirling around them, he realises that he is smiling.

‘ _I like plums’_ he writes in his notebook, and then nods to himself.

The couple across the hall start up again, and he can hear the man’s voice, too loud. It will continue like it always does. The man comes home angry. She takes the brunt of it, and then cries herself to sleep.

It is none of his business.

But he finds that he doesn’t go to sleep as easily as he has done before.

*

Someone is following him.

He knows the feeling like he knows the feeling of the plates of his metal arm moving against each other. The knowledge is in the exposed feeling on the back of his neck, the flicker of movement up high in the corner of his eye.

It could just be his paranoia.

He knows that he sees shadows coming at him from every darkened corner.

He should have moved on a long time ago. He has been in Romania for two months now. It is too long. But he likes the place, it feels safe. The Winter Soldier has never been here, and the atmosphere of the city seems familiar somehow, the bustle of the people, the ebb and flow of life.

Someone is following him, but they do not feel like Hydra.

One person, perhaps, not a team. It is not the captain and his people, he knows that feeling too, and they are not subtle. Apart from the woman, but this does not feel like the spider.

The presence does not feel aggressive. He leaves it plenty of openings to do something, but nothing happens. A scout then. Someone he will have to deal with if he wants to leave unmolested. It will make things difficult, but not impossible. Deep cover has never been something he was trained for, the handlers tended to use him as the weapon of last resort, wind him up and let him go. Good at stealth, but more like a blunt instrument to them than an operative. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have the skills, though. He knows how to disappear.

Part of him doesn’t want to, though. He has grown attached to this little corner of the world. It has become his in a strange way. It is not so much that he likes it, but that it belongs to him and only him. He has never had a place like this that he can remember. But what does that mean, his memory is full of holes.

He doesn’t have much to pack; the notebooks are the only thing he can’t lose. A change of clothes and some weapons. That’s all he has, all he needs. He’s packing it up again when he hears the shouting next door.

His backpack is open in his hands and he looks down at it for a second and then he gives in to the urge. He’s leaving and he’s already been found, it’s not like this can do anymore damage.

When he knocks on the door opposite it’s with his metal hand. He can hear what’s going on behind it. His hearing is better than most. He thinks it’s something they did to him. He remembers being strapped to a table, but then he remembers being rescued too, it’s difficult to keep straight, because he knows he wasn’t rescued. Seventy years and he wasn’t rescued.

The couple are hissing at each other behind the door, but he doesn’t say anything, just knocks again, to remind them he’s still here.

The woman opens the door. She’s shaking slightly and he feels his hands clench at the sight of her. Something is rising in his throat, a tightness, an urge to hit.

His Romanian is fluent and natural as he asks her if she’s okay. She nods, her eyes flickering to the side as though trying to see the man behind her. He tells her that he’s here to speak to her boyfriend instead.

She calls out for Constantin, her boyfriend’s name and he appears.

They’ve seen each other on the stairs, nodded at each other in fact. Constantin likes to think that he’s tough. He’s a petty criminal with a part time job at a store down the street. He likes to crack his knuckles.

When he cracks his knuckles this time, he finds his actions mimicked by the fingers of a metal hand.

“What do you want?” Constantin asks, trying to bluster. The fear is almost visible rising off him like steam.

“I want you not to be an asshole.”

The girl – Mirela, he remembers – looks at him with wide eyes.

“You’re calling me an asshole?”

“You’re beating up your girlfriend every night.”

“You’re the asshole, asshole,” Constantin replies. “I’m gonna teach you to keep your mouth shut. What I choose to do in my own home is none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business,” he says. He feels a little thrill in him as he says the words, because he feels like it’s not him speaking. It feels like it’s the man from his memories, the man with the shield. This is not what he should be doing. He should have left in the middle of the night, no fanfare, no fights, just disappeared and left an empty apartment. But he feels like this is what the man on the helicarrier would want him to do. It feels like this is what he is supposed to be doing.

“Then you’ve become my business,” Constantin says.

The fight is unfair. It is from the beginning. It’s not like he even needs to think about it. His body goes through the motions on automatic. Constantin doesn’t have a chance. Every punch is aimed, every blow is on target. He hears bones crunch. It only takes three strikes before Constantin is on his knees.

He raises his metal fist again. The next blow will almost certainly shatter the man’s skull. He knows this like he knows other things. He is not a weapon anymore, but this feels like the right kind of fight.

But something hits him round the back of his head. It’s not hard enough to damage him, but he turns to see Mirela standing there, holding a table lamp and staring at him, wild-eyed and breathing heavily.

“Leave him alone,” she says.

He looks down at Constantin, slumped to the ground and only held up by the grip around his collar. His face is bloody and bruised. He looks back at Mirela’s face, the bruise across her cheek that she’ll cover up with makeup tomorrow.

“You deserve better.”

“Fuck you,” she says. “You leave him alone.”

He stares at her and then releases his grip on Constantin’s collar.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, and he contemplates the question for a second.

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells her then. “Who are you?”

She blinks and he turns to walk away.

“Where are you going?” she calls after him.

“Somewhere else,” he tells her, and then pauses. “You should leave before he kills you.”

“You don’t know me,” she says.

“I don’t know myself,” he replies. “But I’m trying to work it out.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, and he walks off. She won’t call the police, Constantin would get in too much trouble, and she won’t risk that. She’ll stick by him, and it doesn’t make sense, except for how it does.

He remembers that much clearly, not knowing anything beyond the pain, and clinging to it because it’s all he had. The pain gave him purpose.

*

He steals a car, swaps it for a different one at the next town over, sleeps at the side of roads, always half awake. He doesn’t need to sleep more than every 48 hours, so he doesn’t. He finds food where he needs it, keeps his hat firmly on his head and his face directed at the ground, but he can’t shake the feeling he’s being followed.

It’s in on the other side of Romania that his shadow catches up to him.

The plums started something, he knows that now. Food, for as long as he can remember, has been a necessity, fuel only. The asset was running low on energy, the asset was given food, sometimes through a drip, sometimes he was allowed to eat. Everything was efficient and balanced. But the plums, they had been more than just fuel. There had been pleasure in eating them. Pleasure is a new thing that he finds in himself every now and then. It’s a bit strange, a bit worrying, but it’s something he’s been hoarding in his head. There are certain fabrics he enjoys touching, and now there are foods.

Tastes he has never had before, or at the least doesn’t remember having, he seeks out. He goes into small, rundown looking cafes, and orders things off the menu that he doesn’t recognise. He likes chocolate, unless it’s mixed with orange, but he likes orange on its own. Raisins are good, as are nuts. Fries, he likes; rice he can take or leave. It’s like uncovering a whole new world. There is more to life than nutrition.

He is sitting in a café when it happens. Coffee is interesting. He prefers it without sugar, but he’s trying pancakes for the first time in this little café in Romania when the man walks through the door.

His eyes are drawn to the man immediately, because he is so clearly a threat. He stands like a fighter, and he’s built like one too. He moves with the surety of someone who knows where every part of his body is, someone who has been trained to use their body since they were a child.

When he looks at the man’s face, he recognises it, and he’s rising from his seat even as their eyes meet.

Hawkeye, SHIELD agent, Avenger. Baseline human. Preferred weapon a recurve bow. The world’s greatest marksman, or so he claims.

“Don’t leave on my account,” says Hawkeye as he approaches the table.

Teammate of Captain America. Friend of Steve Rogers.

“I’m not here to take you in, I swear,” Hawkeye tells him. “I’m just… Look, all that shit happened with SHIELD and the helicarriers, and I’m burned.” He shrugs. “I mean, it sucks, but it happens. And I’m in the middle of central Europe with nothing to my name but my bow and my underwear. Seriously, I had to jump off this balcony in Switzerland in the middle of the night… don’t tell anyone that, by the way. Aw… especially don’t tell Cap. I mean… if he asks, then it was amazing, alright. Very Errol Flynn. But yeah, I was in Switzerland, and I get this call from Tasha to apologise for burning me – and apparently every other fucker – and she says ‘take an extended holiday, oh and by the way the Winter Soldier’s actually Steve’s old pal Bucky Barnes – you know the one from the comics. With the shorts – keep an eye out for him, OK? And so I do the great European tour – draining some bad guy’s Swiss bank accounts, because why not? It’s not like I’m getting a pay check anymore. I get to Romania, because I’ve never been to Romania before, and who do I see across the street?”

“How long until he gets here?”

“What?” Hawkeye asks, blinking. “How long until who gets here?”

“You’re playing for time. How long until the Captain gets here?” His eyes flash around the café, looking for a way out.

“Cap? He’s not coming,” Hawkeye says, reaching out to swipe his finger through the cream on the top of the pancakes. “Why would he be coming?”

“You called him.”

“No, I really didn’t,” Hawkeye says. “If you’re feeling up to a reunion, I can, if you’d like.”

“No!”

“Didn’t think so. Tasha asked me to keep an eye out for you. She didn’t say anything about telling people if I found you. I’m thinking of it more like… babysitting duty.”

He narrowed his eyes at that.  Hawkeye just smirks. Bucky looks at the remains of his pancakes. They are good, but they are not… right. He could not say what is wrong with them, but something is. He knows the feeling of a memory just too far out of reach all too well these days.

But the pancakes are not worth being caught, no matter how sweet the syrup makes them. He stands up.

“Don’t follow me,” he says firmly, his tone promising death.

“Look, buddy. I know you’ve never met Nat, but seriously. I’ll take my chances.”

“I will kill you if you follow me,” he growls at the Avenger, Hawkeye doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Sorry, I’m immune to growly Russian assassin voice. Nice try though. If you’re not eating them, mind if I finish them?” Hawkeye asks, nodding at the pancakes.

He shrugs, although he knows he is frowning.

“Or you could stay and finish them yourself,” Hawkeye suggests.

“Take them,” he says, muttering afterwards: “they’re not right anyway.”

“I hear ya,” Hawkeye agrees, he barely waits for permission to be given before he’s pulling the plate across the table and digging in. He stuffs a massive chunk into his mouth and it blows out his right cheek. “Nowhere does pancakes quite like the USA.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he says, unable to hold the words in. They feel familiar, like it’s something he’s heard or said a million times.

“Heh… the Winter Soldier’s got table manners!” Hawkeye crows gleefully.

“I’m not…” he looks around the café, but no one is paying them attention. “I’m not that anymore. I’m just… I just want to be left alone.”

“Mmft,” Hawkeye says with a nod, another mouthful of pancakes shovelled in. “Not sure that’s an option, buddy.”

“Then make it an option, воробушек.”

“Was that supposed to be insulting?” Hawkeye asks. “Because I love pet names, зимушка.” He’s polished off the pancakes and he’s practically scraping the surface off the plate trying to get the rest of the syrup off.

“This had better be the last time I see you,” he says, and then he leaves. He does not look around, even when he hears Hawkeye call for another coffee in respectable, if awkward Romanian.

He has his backpack with him, so he doesn’t bother returning to the car. He has his memories, and that’s all he needs. They were taken from him, and he’s not going to let them slip from his grasp again.

He switches clothes in the market, snags a top and a coat, grabs a hat from another stall over, then changes in dark spaces, where no eyes can see, pulls his hair down over his face and walks out a different person, or as different as he can be. These days he needs to hide his hand. Nothing is more memorable than the guy with the metal arm.

He finds a motorbike that’s easy enough to hotwire and leaves town as quickly as he can. As quickly as if Hydra were pursuing him. He doesn’t go straight, he doesn’t follow the highways, and he sticks to the narrow roads that weave between sheer rock faces and thick forest, the wind in his face. It feels… he has stuck to cars before now, but gunning the engine and letting the vibrations and roar run through him is different. He feels like he’s almost flying. The smell of the pine trees comes to him and he isn’t sure whether it’s something he can’t remember making the tears form on his cheeks, or if it’s just the wind whipping right into him.

The next place he finds is smaller, so he doesn’t go in. It’s small enough that people would notice an outsider too easily. It’s easy enough to hunt a few rabbits, though, strip them down. They’re not nutritious enough to survive on for long, but he’ll make it one night.

The night is cold, but he’s felt colder.

It doesn’t mean he dreams of anything but the oblivion, though, the door closing over him and the icing beginning.

He can feel it. He always felt it. It crawled up his arms. Hitting the metal arm first and worst, because that is what metal does. And he can feel the chemicals they injected into him to slow his heart more safely, to make sure his blood didn’t burst his blood vessels. He remembers the first time, not knowing what was happening, being sure he was going to die and simultaneously being grateful that it was finally happening, and panicking because some part of him still wanted to live.

He lies awake in the dark, staring at the bark of the tree nearby, forcing his body not to shiver as best he can. He is not in the pod; he is not being frozen again.

Somewhere above him there is a rustle and a bird hoots gently. It’s reassuring. The world is still alive around him. He is alone in the cold, yes, but that is not necessarily a bad thing.

He’s going to survive. He always survives. That’s what he does.

*

Two days later, miles away, possibly even in a different country – Europe is full of small countries and soft borders – he feels like he is being watched again. It’s another cold night and by rights he should be alone in the forest.

His sense of paranoia is finely tuned. There is something in the tree above him. It could be a bird, but it’s too large. Very large. Person-sized large.

He is fully awake as soon as he has realised this, and opens his eyes the smallest sliver to look upwards. In the dark it shouldn’t be noticeable.

The moon is dim tonight, barely a crescent splitting the dark of the night sky, but one of the benefits of Hydra’s experimentation is better night vision. He can see a dark shake perched in the tree above him.

Not a shape. A figure. Strangely shaped, like their back is hunched.

Whoever it is isn’t looking at him, though. Not right now, at least.

He waits.

The person seems wholly uninterested in him, choosing instead to look out into the darkness. It’s strange, almost as if they are keeping watch.

It takes him a moment to realise that the strange hunch to their back is actually a quiver, and that they are holding onto a bow, not a branch of the tree.

Hawkeye.

He debates shooting the man down. It would be efficient and make his opinion on this situation clear. But something stops him. Maybe it’s his memory of the captain, or perhaps it’s something else, but Hawkeye doesn’t read as a threat. So instead he chooses a course of action he doesn’t know if he’s ever taken before.

“Are you going to stay up there all night?” he asks.

His voice sounds rusty and the words don’t quite sound right to his ears. The sentiment is correct, but it sounds stilted.

There’s a startled squawk from above him and Hawkeye flails, which brings a smile to his lips unbidden.

He can see the pale reflection of eyes staring down at him.

“Uh?” Hawkeye says.

Below, he frowns to himself and tries to find the right words this time, the ones that fit his tongue right.

“You gonna sit up there freezing your ass off all night?” he asks. It still sounds wrong – tentative and confused, where he knows it should be confident and… teasing? – but the words were right.

“Well…” Hawkeye says. “I mean, I’m intending to keep my ass. Don’t wanna disappoint the fans, you know. Some of them are very invested in my ass. It’s got a whole tumblr dedicated to it.”

He has no idea what that means, but it doesn’t sound important, so he ignores it. It is the time for relevant information, not nonsense.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Keeping watch,” Hawkeye says immediately.

“Over me?” He frowns. “I’m not. I’m not going to hurt anyone.” Unless they are a threat, of course. He can’t see Hawkeye’s face, but there’s a long pause.

“Not like that. I meant. Aw… Stay there, I’m coming down.”

‘Coming down’ the tree was apparently not the same as ‘climbing down’ the tree. Hawkeye swung from one branch to the next, sometimes holding on with his hands, other times with his legs, until he was somersaulting down onto the ground.

“It’s okay if you’re impressed,” Hawkeye says, giving a bow. “I know I’m amazing.” The grin that Hawkeye gives him as he straightens up makes something lurch inside his chest. It’s been a long time since someone smiled at him.

“That wasn’t very efficient,” he says, to cover up his confusion. The smile falls from Hawkeye’s face, which makes things less confusing, but also worse somehow. He feels like he’s failed somehow.

“Style beats efficiency any day of the week,” Hawkeye says. “What’s the point of being good if you don’t do it in style, Barnes?” he asks. The use of his name makes him jerk. When was the last time someone used his name like that. Just casually, like it was a known thing, a certain, sure, okay thing, that wouldn’t lead to the chair? He starts every one of his books with the statement “My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” But he’s never actually applied it to himself. It was a fact, known but not applied. He thinks about it for a second. Barnes. It is his name, it fits him, and Hawkeye has offered it back to him. He nods and takes it. He can be Barnes. Bucky has too much weight, James is unfamiliar and… frayed somehow. But he can be Barnes.

“Not dying,” Barnes says. “No point being stylish if you’re dead. Survival is the highest mandate.”

“First of all, dead people can totally have style. Second, living’s no fun if you’re only just surviving,” Hawkeye shrugs, and Barnes wonders how this man could ever have been considered a threat by Hydra. But then he has managed to track Barnes for several days, and Barnes hasn’t killed him yet, so that implies some sort of competency. “Come on, Barnes. Where’s your sense of fun?” Hawkeye asks.

Barnes considers the question for a moment. It doesn’t seem like it needs an answer, but there’s something in his head that provides one.

“Nineteen forty four,” he replies. Hawkeye blinks at him, eyes wide and round in the dim moonlight. Then he laughs.

“Oh! I like you!” Hawkeye declares. Like it’s that easy to know something like that. Like it’s that easy to like Barnes. It makes his chest do that lurch again and he crushes it down. Being liked isn’t important. And why should he trust the words that are thrown out so carelessly? Trusting people hasn’t got him that far in life, has it? Hawkeye straightens up.

“That is, unless you’re gonna kill me. Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” Barnes says, after a moment of consideration. “Not today.”

“Good to know. So, if you’re not going to kill me, why am I down here?”

“It’s warmer,” he says. “And you can’t fall.” That’s not the reason, but Hawkeye was the one who chose to come down, it wasn’t Barnes’ idea. But the words make sense.

“Aww! You’re concerned about my safety,” Hawkeye says. He sets his bow down – foolish to put down a weapon when in the presence of a threat – rubs his hands together and sticks them into his armpits. “It’s not that much warmer.”

“Get closer to the fire.”

He had built a fire when he’d first decided to stop for the night. The sunset had meant the glow was not as visible, and the remains of it are still warm enough to make a difference.

“Are you going to be able to sleep with me this close?” Hawkeye says.

“Keep an eye on you,” Barnes says. The talking is getting more difficult. He hasn’t had a conversation this long in years, besides mission reports. He frowns. This is getting too complicated.

“Look, I’m not up there spying on you, I swear. I’m keeping watch in case there’s anyone else following you.”

“You’re… trying to protect me?” Barnes asks. He’s not sure if he believes it. For all that was what it had looked like when he had woken up, it’s possible that Hawkeye had seen him do so. The man’s eyesight is supposed to be impeccable. The idea is ludicrous for other reasons as well. Barnes does not need protection. He never has. He is the one who protects. That is his job.

Was his job.

Not that it had been a job he had chosen, not recently, anyway. But he thinks… he thinks that protection came first.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye scratches the back of his neck. “No need to sound so reassured. I am actually good at my job, you know. Sure maybe Cap or Nat would be a better bet, but you’re pretty sure you don’t want them involved, so I guess I’m what you’ve got.” He pauses. “Are you going to be able to sleep if I go back up there?”

Barnes contemplates this. Hawkeye has not approached him with aggression, but he is deadly from a distance. He is a greater threat from further away. He shakes his head.

“Guess I’m stuck down here, then.”

Barnes doesn’t sleep that night. Hawkeye drifts off, leaning against a tree and snores fit to wake the dead. There’s something soothing about the snoring, it reminds Barnes of something, a long time ago, before Hydra and that whole mess. The comfort of sleeping with people to watch your back. Falsworth snoring on one side of him, Dum-Dum snoring on the other side of the camp. _The sweetest lullaby a soldier’s ever like to have_.

He doesn’t sleep, in spite of the strange calm that comes over him, He writes the scrap of memory down in his book and stays awake, right up until sunrise. He could have left earlier, should have, probably, but he doesn’t want to leave a man alone in the dark. It’s a strange idea, but if Hawkeye was telling the truth and watching out for him, Barnes wants to return the favour. That doesn’t stop him from leaving, as silently as he can, packing up his belongings and creeping away. Hawkeye’s snores follow him through the forest until they fade, drowned out by the wind.

Barnes ditches the car, choosing to travel by foot instead until he comes across one to steal. He stops in a village fifty miles away from where he made camp and buys some eggs and apples. The woman who sells them to him asks him where he comes from and he says New York without realising it, the words slipping out naturally while he’s considering the eggs. He doesn’t even notice what he’s said until she’s talking about always having wanted to see the Empire State Building. More and more he’s finding himself saying things he does not intend to say. It is dangerous.

When he gets back to the car, Hawkeye is leaning against it, sunglasses on his face and a bag at his feet.

“Sneaking out before I wake up? No note? And I thought we had something special,” Hawkeye says. His voice is a drawl.

Barnes glares at him and turns away. He can find another car.

“There are like 6 houses in this village, Barnes. You and me are the only strangers. You steal a car, they’re gonna know.”

He pauses. Hawkeye is right, but if he’s _already being followed_.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Hawkeye says, holding his hands up. “My real identity is spread all over the Internet right now. You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to draw attention.” He looks over his sunglasses at the village around them. “I honestly can’t remember if I’ve ever committed a crime in Romania that the police are gonna want to talk to me about. So how about this?” He pauses, his lips curling up at one side in a strange way Barnes isn’t sure how to take. “Road trip. I mean, I never did the whole college thing and, while living with a circus sounds like non-stop road trip action, there’s actually a whole lot more animal shit, betrayal and petty crime involved than you’d think. And not so petty crime,” he adds as an afterthought. “So what do you think? You and me – road trip buddies. We’ll wind the top down, feel the wind in our hair, listen to cheesy music on the radio, party like it’s nineteen ninety nine?”

“Shut up and get in the car,” Barnes says.

Hawkeye punches the air gleefully.

“I knew you’d come round. No one can say no to me.”

Barnes leaves him in the next town over after Hawkeye falls asleep in the passenger seat. But he isn’t really surprised when he wakes up the next morning to find Hawkeye sitting cross-legged by his feet, checking his arrows. When he notices Barnes is awake, he looks up and waves an arrow at him in a vaguely threatening manner. It’s a bit like watching a puppy growl.

“Seriously? Leaving me in a stolen car? Not cool, Barnes. Not cool.”

“How?” Barnes asks, because he knows he covered his tracks this time. He knows no one should have been able to trace him.

“A gentleman never tells.”

“Something tells me that you’ve never been called a gentleman,” Barnes says.

“Ow! That wounds me,” Hawkeye clutches his chest and Barnes doesn’t allow his lips to pull up into the smile he can feel struggling to break his façade.

“Please tell me it’s fatal.”

Hawkeye stares, and then grins again. The urge to smile back at him is greater, so Barnes grits his teeth. They are not friends. Barnes does not have friends. He doesn’t need them and he doesn’t deserve them. Hawkeye is a threat and a risk.

“You know, I bet no one will believe me when I tell them you’re a funny guy.”

Barnes is off his back, metal hand around Hawkeye’s throat in a second, pushing him up against a tree.

The gesture sets off another ricochet of memories. It’s simple to choke the life out of someone and he has done it before, so many, many times. Faces swim before him as he tries to blink the memories away. Lips turning dark with lack of air as they gasp for oxygen that will never reach their lungs.

“Uh, Barnes? Buddy?” Hawkeye says. “Normally I don’t let guys choke me until at least the fifth date. You’ve really got to build up the trust before the erotic asphyxiation, y’know. Not that I’m not flattered, and seriously, give me a safe word and a nice hotel room and you and I can totally-“

“You shouldn’t let people choke you,” Barnes says. He knows he’s not choking Hawkeye really. He knows the metal fingers of his hand have not squeezed. The man’s still speaking for one thing. The chatter of words that Barnes is not thinking of the meaning of is clear enough. “It’s not safe.”

“Sometimes that’s the best part,” Hawkeye says, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that makes them look like angry caterpillars. “Gotta be straight with you here, Barnes. You’re sort of giving me mixed messages.”

It would be easy to kill him.

Barnes does not want to kill him. But that’s not new. He has not wanted anything for a long time. But strangely, he is feeling an urge _not to_ kill.

He watches Hawkeye’s tongue wet his lips, his eyes flicker. He can feel the beat of a pulse under his fingers. Ninety beats per minute. For someone as physically fit as an Avenger, that’s high. Adrenal response to active threat.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, releasing Hawkeye’s throat. “You are very breakable. I could kill you in seconds. You should chase things that will kill you.”

“Right,” Hawkeye says. “Except for three things: One, you’re a person not a thing. Two, pretty sure my choice of career says everything you need to know about my sense of self-preservation. And three, why do I always get the crazy hot people who could kill me with their pinkie? It’s my curse. I am a crazy hot killer magnet.”

“For a marksman, you talk a lot,” Barnes says.

“It balances out,” Hawkeye says. “Apple?” He pulls a piece of fruit out of his pocket.

“That’s not an apple,” Barnes says, because the man is holding a banana.

“It is if I say it is,” Hawkeye says.

“No, it’s not.”

“Okay, so you’re not actually crazy,” Hawkeye says. “Good to know. Want a banana?”

Barnes takes it from him. Poison is unlikely. It isn’t Hawkeye’s MO, and the man’s had more than enough opportunity to kill him.

The banana tastes strange, but not unpleasant.

“Huh,” Hawkeye says watching the banana disappear into Barnes’ mouth. “I was expecting one of Cap’s ‘not even the bananas are the same’ rants.”

“Huh,” Barnes echoes. So it was the banana that was strange, not his memory. He files that away. Sometimes it is his mind that’s wrong, sometimes it’s the world that’s changed. It’s difficult to keep track. Nothing is trustworthy. Nothing is constant.

“Are we through with this whole thing where you leave me behind and I hunt you down?” Hawkeye asks. “I think I’ve proved that you’re not getting away from me any time soon.”

“You said you were going to tell people. About me,” Barnes says, backtracking to the reason things had become… tense. Hawkeye’s eyes go wide.

“What? WAS that why you went all Darth Vader on me? Nah. I mean, not anytime soon. Not without your permission. Just far in the future when this is something we joke about.”

Silence. Barnes takes a small amount of enjoyment in the way Hawkeye’s eyes get even wider, and his mouth goes a little slack.

“Or not. Or it can just be between us. Super-secret pals.”

“Good choice,” Barnes says as flatly as he can manage before turning around to pick up his bag and start heading to where he’s stashed the car.

“This is a yes, right? To the road trip?” Hawkeye says, hurrying after him. “You’re not going to wait for me to fall asleep and then leave me alone in a stolen vehicle again? Because that was not my favourite prank ever. Gotta tell you. You couldn’t have just drawn a dick on my face, like everyone else?”

“Get in the car,” Barnes says.

“Seriously, are you going to ditch me again?”

“Get in the car.”

“Just wink if you’re going to ditch me – you don’t even have to say it out loud.”

“Get in the car.” Barnes doesn’t wink until Hawkeye is already half in the vehicle.

“What? What? Are you trolling me?” Barnes doesn’t say anything. “Aw man. I take it back. You’re terrible.” But Hawkeye gets in the car.

The next day, it takes Hawkeye all morning to realise that Barnes has drawn a moustache and a monocle on his face.

* 

He doesn’t ditch Hawkeye. The thought crosses his mind, more than once, but he never does it, even as he’s thinking how stupid he is not to. Instead he lets the man tag along. He seems grateful for the company, and never asks where they’re going. He never seems to care, just makes stupid jokes, talks for hours about the music on the radio, or the front page of the newspaper.

It’s odd, not being alone, having someone talking to him and actually, on occasion, expecting a response. It’s strange having someone order his food at the next café they go to as he sits down to get them a table, always the table with the best getaway routes.

As Hawkeye comes towards them, a tray in his hands with two steaming mugs of coffee and two trays of greasy grilled cheese, he notices that the man has something in his mouth. Barton grins around the piece of card as he sits down and shoves Barnes’ coffee towards him.

“What’s that?” he asks, looking with suspicion at the brightly coloured picture Barton is waving about as he fishes in his pockets for something.

“Postcard,” Barton says, flourishing a pen with triumph when he finally finds it. “For Nat. She hates them.”

“No.” he says.

“What? Oh, come on. I’m not gonna tell her I’ve found you. Just a ‘Hi, wish you were here!’”

“No,” he repeats. “She’s a spy, you’re a spy. You think I don’t know about secret messages and encryptions.”

“Why the fuck would I put a secret message in snail mail when I could go to the internet café three doors down and send her an email?” Barton asks, looking dumbfounded. “Look, this is just something we do, okay. I send her terrible postcards that she hates.” He starts writing on the back of the stupid thing. Barnes rips it away, so that Barton’s marker leaves a long line on the table. “Hey. I bought that!”

Barnes fishes out the lighter he found in his stolen jacket pocket.

“Wait! No!”

The postcard burns in the ashtray in the middle of the table quite effectively.

“Oh… fuck you, Barnes,” Barton says.

“No postcards,” he repeats.

He wakes up the next morning to find postcards stuffed into all of his pockets, and his backpack, and into his notebooks. Each one of them, without fail, has “Fuck you, Barnes! Xxx” scribbled on it in all caps. He doesn’t know when Barton had time to buy them, because as far as he’s aware the man had been within his sight all day, but even he’s a little impressed by the dedication.

He keeps one as a bookmark, the rest he burns in their campfire.

*

 

They’re in what Barnes thinks is Croatia when he sees Hawkeye wince as Barnes pulls the car over so they can make camp.

“What’s up?” he asks. Barton grimaces.

“Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m really hoping to sleep in an actual bed sometime this year.”

Barnes looks over at him and frowns. He hadn’t really thought about it beyond wanting to stay off the grid, but the idea of a bed does hold a certain appeal.

“I mean, it’s getting towards December and I’d prefer not to freeze to death, also all this sleeping on tree roots is doing a number on my neck.” He pouts and Barnes considers it. The last sign they passed had said they were only a few miles away from a city.

“You could go on,” he suggests and Barton makes a face.

“You think I don’t know where that leads? You ditching me again and I have to play tag with you all over Europe. Nuhuh, ain’t happening. If you’re staying out here, I guess I’m staying out here too. I just wanted to, y’know, throw it out there. Just an idea.”

Barnes looks out at the stony ground and purses his lips. Now that Barton’s raised the issue he’s thinking that maybe he doesn’t like sleeping rough either, he just hadn’t considered an alternative option.

He considers it again, then turns the keys in the ignition. The engine splutters into life and Barton’s eyebrows rise up into his hairline.

“Are you listening to me?” Barton asks. He sounds completely floored by the very idea.

“You’re right,” Barnes says. “We don’t need to sleep outside as long as we’re careful and it will be more comfortable in a bed. Also, if you’re going to keep up with me, you need to be in peak physical condition.”

Barton glares at the indication that he’s anything less than fighting fit, but Barnes doesn’t look at him. He does let the smirk drift onto his face, though. There’s a certain sense of satisfaction at making Barton splutter like that.

They find the most out of the way, dive of a hotel they can. Not only is it the sort of place no one looks for anyone, but it’s also the only one they can afford without robbing someone on the street, and Barton shows a remarkable reluctance to do that, considering how comfortable he’d been with the stolen vehicles.

“I can pickpocket,” he says, “But why do it if we don’t need to.”

One look at the hotel and Barnes is wishing he hadn’t listened to the man. The room looks like it was probably involved in some sort of war. He eyes the cracks in the ceiling warily, considering the structural integrity.

Then, of course, there’s the fact that there’s only one bed.

“Ah,” Hawkeye says. “Look… I’ll take the floor.”

“That would defeat the purposes of us sleeping indoors,” Barnes points out. “It’s a double. We can both fit. We’ve been sleeping next to each other for days.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t in a bed,” Barton says, looking dubious. “Are you sure?”

“Sleeping on the floor won’t help your neck.”

“It’s still warm… er,” Barton says, leaning down to fiddle with the dial on the radiator. After thirty minutes on high, the room still isn’t any warmer. It is still warmer than outside, though, so Barnes still thinks that this has been partially successful.

There are two blankets on the bed, but they’re both thin. Barton curls up with one on one side of the bed and Barnes lies down on the other side. It might not be the world’s best mattress and there may be a spring sticking into his side, but it’s ten times more comfortable than the ground, and for once he doesn’t feel like he’s being put back into the deep freeze.

It reminds him a bit of his apartment in Romania. That had been nice. Of course, there he hadn’t had someone else in the bed with him, shifting and turning all night long.

Barnes doesn’t need a lot of sleep, but it doesn’t help that Barton tosses and turns like he’s the princess sleeping on the goddam pea.

“Stop moving,” he hisses into the darkness and the rustling sounds stop.

Only to start again two minutes later.

“Seriously?”

“It’s cold. My feet are cold,” Barton says. “Look, maybe you’ve got anti-freeze in your veins, but some of us can’t feel our toes. I think I’m getting frostbite.”

“You’re not getting frostbite.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh for… Come here,” Barnes turns over to look. He can see pretty clearly in the dim light, the serum enhanced his vision enough that the shades of grey are crisp and clear. Barton’s looking at him, only the mop of his hair and his eyes visible above the thin blanket that he’s rolled around himself.

“What?”

“My core body temperature is .5 degrees higher than the average human,” Barnes says. “You’re cold. Come here.”

“You wanna… cuddle? I don’t know, man. Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”

“I did buy you dinner,” Barnes points out. “You can’t sleep coz you’re cold. I can’t sleep coz you can’t stop moving. Come over here and we both get some sleep.”

“Are you going to crush me to death in my sleep?”

“I’ll crush you to death right now if you don’t _come here_.”

“Uh…”

Barton shuffles closer. For the first time, Barnes actually sees some sort of survival instinct in him. What a weird time for it to manifest.

“Will you still respect me in the morning?” Barton asks. It’s clearly supposed to be a joke, but Bucky doesn’t really get it.

“I don’t respect you now,” Barnes points out.

“Ow… you really know where it hurts, don’t you?” Barton says, just as he shuffles into Barnes’ reach.

He stretches out his arm and reels Barton in until they’re slotted together on the bed.

“I’m spooning with the Winter Soldier,” Barton says. “You must have already killed me.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

Barton really is cold. Curled against him, Barnes can feel the shivers running through his body. His skin is cold to the touch.  But his skin is warming up where Barnes is touching it, and the shivering’s dying down.

“Shutting up and going to sleep,” Barton mumbles.

Barnes waits until his breathing evens out before going to sleep himself. He wakes up to Barton pulling out of the bed and heading for the bathroom, his feet padding against the ground. He cracks open an eye to see the curtains barely keeping out the first rays of dawn.

*

At the next hotel, they take separate rooms. Barton looks the other way while Barnes pickpockets the cash they need, and he seems grateful for it, relief clear on his face when Barnes asks for two rooms. Barnes tries not to let that get to him.

They separate at the door to Barnes’ room, Barton heading away like there are dogs after him, and Barnes is left alone for the first time in over a week.

The silence suddenly seems echoingly lonely, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s not like he would do anything different if Barton were there, but somehow, the fact he isn’t is like a stone in his shoe, or an itch that he can’t reach to scratch.

He is sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, completely at a loss as to why he feels so out of sorts when the knock comes at the door.

His knife is in his hand in an instant, and he crosses over, quietly as he can, standing to one side of the door as he opens it, knife drawn and held ready to strike.

“Uh… well… this is embarrassing.” Hawkeye’s only wearing a bathrobe, scratching at the back of his head and looking up and down the corridor like there might be enemies waiting to jump out. He’s caught between high alert and confusion, because if there were enemies, the guy would be wearing more clothes, and would probably be armed. He wouldn’t have a towel over his shoulder.

“But the shower in my room isn’t working… and…”

Barnes steps aside without comment.

“Aw. Thanks!” Barton says, with a grin.

“The shower’s in there,” Barnes says, but Hawkeye pays him no attention, looking around the room with interest, at anything but Barnes. “Barton?” he asks. Barton’s eyes are lingering on the bed, where the sheets are still made perfectly, apart from the small rucked up part where Barnes had been sitting. “You gonna stare all day or are you gonna take a shower?” he asks. Still no response. It’s then that he realises that Barton’s hearing aids are not in place behind his ears. Barnes stares. The fact that the man is standing there, unable to hear, in front of Barnes is… worrying, to be honest. There’s also a strange spark of something that bursts in his chest. He taps Barton on the shoulder and the man starts, but doesn’t get defensive, just turns to look at Barnes without any sort of suspicion.

“The shower room,” Barnes says, jerking his head in the relevant direction, because he’s not prepared for a conversation right now. He’s never prepared for conversations these days, but it feels a bit like Hawkeye’s invading his territory here, even though five minutes ago he’d been at a loss without the other man around.

“Oh, right. Thanks.” Hawkeye walks off with a bounce in his step, not seeming to realise that all he’s wearing is a bathrobe.

He looks around at the small room. It’s nicer than the last hotel, but not by a lot.

There’s the flash of car headlights in the window and suddenly, Barnes’s remembering again, falling face first into it. The memory of lights flashing just like that, the scent of blood in his nostrils and the taste of it on his lips. It is disconcerting. In his memory, the blood had been a minor inconvenience, coupled with the faint irritation of having done a messy job. But current him feels the unpleasantness, sees the blood all over his face, and feels sick. He has no idea who it belonged to but he remembers the feel and the smell of it.

His body works on automatic, dutifully pulling out his most recent notebook and beginning to write.

Somewhere in the middle of scratching the up down up down of letters, when exactly he cannot be sure, but at some point, Hawkeye starts to sing.

Barnes’s hand slows as the words, punctuated by the splashing of shower water, filter through the haze of his memory and he doesn’t even realise it until he’s humming along.

Humming a song he didn’t even remember existed until he was already humming it. Sometimes it’s like his body doesn’t even belong to him, or like every part of it acts independently with a mind and a memory of its own.

Then his lips are forming the words and he knows. He knows to echo back the nonsense words that Hawkeye’s calling out from the shower. Each time they get longer and longer, faster and faster. Meaningless syllables colliding and forming rhythms that trip off his tongue.

Eventually it fades back into the original lyrics and Barnes realises that he isn’t just singing along, he’s writing along.

It’s like being jerked out of a dream when the shower door opens, the singing stops and Hawkeye emerges. His face is flushed from the steam and his hair’s still damp, even as he lifts the towel from his neck to rub at it.

“Thanks Barnes,” he says cheerfully, then saunters out of the room, leaving Barnes with a page full of lyrics. He watches Barton go, unable to tear his eyes away for some reason, then looks down at the page, back at what he was writing.

The song summons up the sound of laughter, accompanied by wheezing.

_“Shit, Stevie… why did you…? If you can’t breathe you stop singing, idiot.”_

_“One day – wheeze – I’m go – wheeze – gonna finish it.”_

_“One day you’re gonna kill yourself and your ma will kill me for letting you.”_

_“You don’ – wheeze let me – wheeze – I can – wheeze do what – wheeze”_

_“Christ, Steve. Stop talkin’ you’re turnin’ blue, ya mook.”_

_“If ya – wheeze – take th’lord’s – wheeze – name in vain – wheeze – again – wheeze – Ma’s really gonna kill ya.”_

_“It ain’t blasphemin’ if I’m prayin’ for you ta stop bein’ an idiot. Idiot.”_

He remembers the taste of worry in his mouth, coupled with the itch of frustration. He can feel his jaw tighten. It’s so vivid: like he’s back there, looking down at Steve.

_Steve_. The guy on the bridge. Shit, _Steve_. Every time he remembers something new about him, it’s like being punched in the gut. He remembers Steve’s voice calling him Bucky.

He remembers seeing Steve fall from the helicarrier. Remembers him standing on a road opposite him, his big dumbass face gawking wide, saying _Bucky_ like it means something.

There are other voices calling his name too, like a thousand memories are coming back all at once. Some it is Steve, other parts are other people. Friends and family, he doesn’t remember their faces, but he can remember their voices.

He can remember his mother – _his mother_ – saying ‘James’. It’s not the first time he’s heard his name in her voice in his memories, but suddenly it means more, because suddenly he knows he’s never going to hear it for real again.

Never gonna hear Becca call out ‘ _Bucky, slow down’_ or hear Dum-Dum say ‘ _Bucky, you son of a gun’_.

He is… crying. Bucky didn’t think he even knew how to cry. Didn’t think he ever would again. But there’s no denying the tears pouring down his cheeks, the sobs that are racking his body, even as they make no noise. He cries silently. And he doesn’t know whether that’s a product of before or after Hydra. Did the Winter Soldier cry, at the beginning? He hopes not. He hopes he never showed them tears. He hopes that they never took that from him, even though he knows they stripped every layer of him away.

There is an aching hole in his chest, for a million things he has only just realised that he has lost. His whole body is jerking with the feeling of it, his eyes burning with tears as he smothers the sound of his breaths by biting down on his flesh hand. Barton is –

Barton is right there, tugging gently at his hand.

“No, man. Come on. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

A hand strokes over his hair a little uncertainly, and it brings back memories of other hands, other times. Comfort had been so far gone for so long. He wants to punch something and he wants to curl up in a ball.

“Uh,” Barton’s awkward. But he wraps a tentative arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him in.

Bucky stays there, still curled up, still shaking with the force of it, the loss of a thousand futures he never even knew he’d missed. Endings that passed him by without his knowledge.

“It’s okay,” Barton says a little unsurely. “Well… I mean… not okay, okay… but it’s gonna get better. Aw hell… I’m not good at this stuff.

*

When he wakes in the morning they both pretend that it didn’t happen. They don’t talk about it, but they don’t bother to get separate rooms again.

*

They’re in Austria when Barton decides to upset their calm existence again. He’s been getting antsy, Bucky could see it in the twitch of his fingers and the way he paces the floor when they stop.

He drags them out to a bar, a dingy little place where the bartender doesn’t ask questions and the patrons keep to themselves.

“You’ve got to _live_ a little,” Hawkeye says, pushing the shot glass over the table with one long finger. It’s one of the ones he pulls his bow string back with and Bucky can see the calluses on it from a lifetime of archery.

“I don’t think I can get drunk,” Bucky says.

“Hydra let you out to party a lot, did they?”

Bucky frowns, trying to recall where this belief comes from, because he’s pretty sure Hydra didn’t give their killing machine the good vodka.

“I’m taking that as a no,” Hawkeye says into the pause. “So bottoms up, Winter Wonder.”

Bucky drains the shot glass and the liquid burns as it goes down.

It turns out that Bucky does not get _drunk_ , but Barton does.

He’s a very friendly drunk. He drapes an arm over Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky doesn’t shrug him off. Perhaps the alcohol has affected him after all. Barton is right in his personal space, but Bucky doesn’t mind, just leans into him a little. He tries to pull back, but every time he finds himself returning to Barton’s warmth. It’s addictive.

“You inspired me, y’know,” Barton says, his words slurring.

“Is that right?” Bucky asks. “What? You wanna get one of these too?” he waggles the fingers of his metal arm.

“No no no not like that,” Barton says, shaking his head and grinning wide and open. There’s not a hint of guile in it. Bucky is taken again by how much trust there is in this. Barton’s from the intelligence community, he knows better than to get drunk like this with someone he doesn’t trust. There’s a lot of responsibility there, for Bucky. If Barton’s letting himself be vulnerable, then it’s Bucky’s job to watch his back, to make sure his trust isn’t misplaced.

“How’d you mean, then?” Bucky asks, mostly just to keep Barton talking. He likes him like this, loose and open and friendly. The arm around his shoulder feels like a blanket, like Bucky’s being protected, even if it’s the other way round.

“Shhh,” Barton says, holding a finger up to his lips with a giggle. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“No one,” Barton repeats. “Stark’ll never let me live it down.”

“I swear I won’t tell Stark,” Bucky says.

“Pinkie promise?” Barton asks, then giggles again, hiding his face in Bucky’s neck.

The feeling of it makes Bucky flush for a second, he’s not sure why. No one is watching them, there is nothing embarrassing about this for Bucky. Maybe he is embarrassed on Barton’s behalf that he is so out of sorts.

“You gonna tell me or not?” Bucky asks. “How did I inspire you?”

“Your comics,” Barton whispers into his ear. Bucky shivers at the air tickling at the inside of his ear. Suddenly Barton seems even closer, and Bucky’s hands are clenching on his thighs.

“My…?” Bucky is at a loss.

“Well, Cap’s comics,” Clint says. “But you were in them. And you were the best shot in the whole world, and Captain America saluted you. He saluted you.” Clint sounds awed at the very idea of Captain America saluting anyone. “You were just an ordinary kid – yeah, you were a kid in the comics. You were only a bit older’n me. An’ you were so good. I wanted to shoot like you.”

Bucky’s floored. The very idea of it seems preposterous, because he doesn’t remember much of the war, but most of what he does remember is rude jokes, trying not to die, and trying not to let Steve get himself killed. The idea that anyone out there wanted to be him is just.

“I ain’t a role model for anyone,” he says out loud. “Never was.”

“Liar,” Barton says.

“I ain’t lying. I don’t know what was in those comic books of yours, but it sure as heck wasn’t me.”

“Yes it was,” Barton says. “It was you. I mean, I know Steve says how they’re terrible and how you would’ve hated them because you’re ‘not a damn sidekick’. And maybe you weren’t sixteen years old. And maybe you didn’t wear those booty shorts.” Barton’s face falls into one of utter sorrow at the thought. “They were good shorts,” he mutters, looking off into the distance.

Bucky opens his mouth to ask why Barton’s talking about shorts, but he knows better than to ask. This is something he almost certainly does not want to know.

“But you’re just as snarky and you’re just as good a shot. You’re _awesome_ ,” Clint breathes into Bucky’s ear. His voice is full of awe and he’s staring at Bucky with huge blue eyes, like Bucky’s something important, someone to be in awe of. Bucky shifts uncomfortably under the weight of that gaze. “You’re everything I thought you’d be,” Clint says, his fingers drifting up to pull at Bucky’s hair and draw their faces together so their foreheads are touching. “You are worth it,” he says.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, just stares at Clint. They’re so close that he can’t make out individual features, just a blur in front of his face that is all made up of Clint. There’s something aching inside his chest and he wants to hide, but at the same time he just wants to sit there forever, with Clint pressed all up along his side, and bask in the fact that someone thinks he’s _awesome_.

Then Clint pulls back and calls for “ANOTHER!” before smashing his glass on the ground with a giggle.

“Thor does that,” he says to Bucky, with another lopsided grin.

“Yeah, well Thor ain’t here, and I think we’re about to make a hasty retreat,” Bucky says. The bartender, who has been studiously ignoring them for the whole evening, is heading over. “Can you stand?”

“I can always get it up,” Clint says, giggling like a mad man.

“Not what I asked, dumbass,” Bucky says. But it’s easy enough to pull Clint up and indicate to the bartender that they’re going already, he doesn’t need to chase them out. Bucky doesn’t have the money to replace the broken glass, so he gets them out of there as fast as possible and then pulls Clint along with him.

Clint’s moving easily, going where he’s pulled. Bucky’s grateful he’s not an ornery drunk. He has another flash of memory, of another bar, and Steve propped against him, announcing to half a dozen men that they should take this outside.

Clint just lolls against Bucky’s side, easy and happy, stroking at Bucky’s hair and, on one occasion, his hand falls down to Bucky’s ass, but pulls up quickly as Clint says “Not supposed to do that,” and then starts playing with Bucky’s hair again.

He flops down on the bed and Bucky pulls off his shoes as Clint stares at the ceiling.

“Had to be as good as you,” Clint says. “I’m the best sharpshooter in the world. D’you know that?”

“Yeah, Hawkeye, I know that.”

“You don’t look happy,” Clint says suddenly and Bucky looks up to see him propped up on his elbows, staring down at where Bucky’s unlacing his boot. “I was trying to make you happy. You’ve got an awesome smile.”

Bucky can’t quite help but smile at that.

“There it is!” Clint crows. “I win!”

“Yeah y’do,” Bucky says. “Now try and win at the getting some sleep game, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Clint says, flopping back again.

Bucky strips off down to his shirt and boxers then climbs in too. Clint turns to him, his movement a lot like a fish flopping about on the shore, his legs seeming unwilling to co-ordinate with the rest of his body. Bucky has to bite back a laugh.

“You’re not gonna leave,” he says. “Wake me up if you go. Wake me up before you go-go,” he giggles again, but it’s more subdued.

“I’m not gonna leave,” Bucky says.

“Wake me up, Buckadoodle doo,” Clint says. Bucky rolls his eyes, but agrees.

Clint wraps his arms around him easily, pulling him close.

“I had a Bucky Bear too,” he says, mumbling into Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t tell Stark.”

“I won’t tell Stark,” Bucky assures him.

Then Clint’s asleep, drooling on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky’s left staring at the ceiling, a thousand things fluttering through his mind.

*

Clint doesn’t wake up the next morning until Bucky opens the curtains, sending daylight streaming down onto his face.

Bucky had contemplated crowing like a cockerel, just to get the man back for that Buckadoodle doo remark, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. He remembers a time when he would have done, but that time is gone, and maybe he won’t be that person again.

He still gets a certain amount of pleasure from watching Clint paw at the sunlight with floppy arms as he groans and pulls away, keeps rolling away until he rolls off the bed completely.

When Clint manages to pull himself into a sitting position, he glares at Bucky. His hair is sticking every which way and there’s a crust of dried saliva by his mouth. It should be disgusting, but Bucky can’t quite stop smiling at the sight. He feels… as strange as the last night had been, with Clint telling him things he’s not sure he was ready to hear, he feels better this morning. He feels stronger.

“You asked me to wake you up,” he says.

“Dick,” Clint says with feeling.

“You begged me to,” Bucky tells him.

“Fucker,” Clint says.

“Don’t leave, Bucky. Wake me up before you go-go,” Bucky tells him, keeping his tone level.

“Son of a bastard whore,” Clint says. “I did not quote George fucking Michael.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Bucky says. “But I’m pretty sure you did.”

“Leave me to die,” Clint says.

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m not going anywhere. I promised.” Clint eyeballs him. But Bucky’s been tortured by Hydra and ordered around by the US military. He’s dragged Steve Rogers out of a fight kicking and screaming. Clint Barton, grumpy and hungover as he is, has nothing on that. “Go get a shower, then we can go get you and your hangover some coffee.”

“Coffee…” Clint says, like a man in a desert pleading for water.

“Shower first,” Bucky says. Clint grumbles, but he heads for the shower and comes out seeming a lot more like himself.

They take their coffees to a park because the fresh air seems good for Clint’s headache, and they sit and watch ducks swimming around a little pond.

The first frost is in the air and Bucky’s starting to feel it. The jacket he’s been wearing isn’t really meant for winter wear, and he knows that he’s not going to be hurt by the cold – his body won’t let him anymore – but it’s not a pleasant sensation, feeling the icy bite of the wind on his skin.

Clint’s better off, his gear seems better made and more suited to the weather, but he’s still got his fingers clamped tight around his coffee cup for warmth.

There’s a small family playing with a dog to the side. The little girl is throwing sticks for it to catch and her parents are calling out to her in German. She can’t be more than seven and the dog’s a roly poly mop of fur that Bucky doubts can be traced back to any specific breed.

They’ve been there for about twenty minutes when the dog decides to take an interest in them

“Elfi!” The little girl calls out, and then suddenly Clint has a lap full of excited dog, head twisting around and around to look at him, a huge stick in its mouth. “Elfi nein!” She calls out again.

Clint’s expression is surprised for a second, then a smile spreads over his face and he uncurls one hand from round his cup to pet the dog’s head carefully, laughing as it twists to try and get more.

“Stay still, silly mutt,” he says to the dog. “Can’t pet you if you keep wriggling like that.”

The dog drops the stick in Clint’s lap, its tail flapping from side to side frantically, its big mouth wide open, tongue lolling out excitedly.

“You want me to throw this?”

The little girl runs up to them, almost tripping over the ends of her long red scarf as she does so.

“Sorry, sir!” she says in German, red in the face from having run so fast. “She ran away. Elfi, come here!”

The dog looks towards its owner, head cocked to one side and whines.

“No problem,” Clint says easily, the German fitting itself to his tongue like he’s spoken it all his life, switching his smile from the dog to the little girl. “I love dogs. She’s called Elfi?”

“Yes,” the girl says, hanging back a little.

“A good name,” Clint says. He picks up the stick and waves it back and forth in front of Elfi’s face. The dog tracks it with her whole head, practically swaying from side to side, obviously holding herself back from lunging for it. Then he lobs it high through the air, and the dog’s off like a shot, springing into action. The little girl claps her hands.

The parents are keeping a close eye on them, but don’t seem too bothered, Bucky wonders what they would do if they knew exactly who their daughter is talking to.

Clint pulls himself off the bench and ends up rolling around in the dirt with the dog, and Bucky can’t keep his eyes off him.

“Is he your husband?” she asks seriously. Bucky blinks and looks back at her.

“No,” he says back in German, frowning. He doesn’t know how she got that idea. “We’re just friends.” She pouts a little but then her parents call her back.

It’s cold on the bench by himself and Bucky finds himself shivering, not quite able to keep himself from wrapping his arms around himself. He hates the cold. He really does. It was alright when that was all he knew, but he’s been exposed to warmth now and he doesn’t want to lose it.

Elfi is called away as well, as the family pack up their things. Bucky watches Clint’s face fall a bit, but his grin comes back when he turns to face Bucky again. Bucky looks away, not sure why he can’t quite handle Clint looking at him like that.

He turns to the family instead, watching the little girl pull at her father’s arm and whisper something in his ear. The man turns to them and, for a second, Bucky thinks that they have been recognised. His heart thuds so loudly he can feel it in every part of him.

But why would a little girl recognise the Winter Soldier?

Her father nods and she kisses him on the cheek before turning to run back to them at full force, her face determined.

When she gets over to them she starts unwinding the scarf from round her neck and holds it out to Bucky.

“To keep you warm,” she says.

Clint elbows him in the side and he reaches out for it. Her eyes go wide when they catch sight of his metal hand, but then she grins as he takes the scarf, before haring back across the frosty grass to her parents, hugging her mother round her legs.

As they are leaving he belatedly remembers his manners and calls out “Thank you.” She turns and waves happily.

Bucky doesn’t move until the family’s gone.

“She saw my arm,” he says to Clint, switching back to English.

“She’s a kid,” Clint says, gently pulling the scarf from Bucky’s hand and beginning to wind it round his neck. “It’ll be fine. You’re freezing and I feel less like death warmed up. Maybe we should blow this popsicle stand.”

“Huh?” Bucky asks, still a little lost. The scarf is warm and soft around his neck and Clint’s standing close again. The warmth is flooding back into him.

“Time to head out,” Clint says. “You want me to drive?”

Bucky shakes his head and follows Clint out of the park, winding his hands into the ends of the scarf, realising that he’s smiling to himself.

*

Clint starts getting quiet. It’s only noticeable because Bucky is becoming attuned to his voice. When the quips and pleasant chatter start to be punctuated with pensive, tense silences, he notices.

They’re twenty kilometres outside of Budapest when the silence starts to wear on Bucky too much. It’s itching at his head. It’s strange, because a week ago, he would have given his right arm to have Clint shut the fuck up. But now it feels wrong when the silence stretches between them. Clint’s  gone still too. Clint’s never still, he fidgets like it’s an Olympic sport. He’s always got something twirling around his fingers, or he’s drumming against the window, or shifting in his seat. But now he’s as still and tense as a drawn bow string.

“Something you wanna tell me?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Clint replies, his answer immediate and short.

“Something I need to know?” Bucky tries. He can see Clint wince out of the corner of his eye. That’s something.

“Maybe. I have history in Budapest.”

“What kind of history?” Bucky asks. Usually the man won’t shut up about anything and everything, but he has a feeling that this is going to be like getting blood from a stone.

“The messy kind.” Looks like he’s right. That could mean anything.

“It going to be a problem?” Bucky asks, because he can respect someone’s privacy, even if he really wants to get to the bottom of this. Clint’s not himself, and it’s not right, and Bucky wants to try to fix it.

“I hope not.” Clint’s words don’t fill Bucky with confidence, neither does the set, cold line of his mouth, which hasn’t smiled in almost an hour.

“We can just drive straight through,” Bucky volunteers. “Or go round.”

“It’s been 24 hours since you slept, Barnes. We can stop for the night, move on tomorrow. I doubt anyone’s going to notice me. It’s been years.”

Bucky doesn’t deny that he needs some sleep. They also need a new car, and a city like Budapest is the best place to find one. No one will notice one more stolen car out of however many get stolen there every day.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been to Budapest. Nothing looks familiar to him, or sparks any memories. He’s grateful for that. He was worried for a while, as he made his way around Europe when he was first trying to work out who he was. The first few notebooks are full of places and descriptions of dead bodies. It doesn’t make for happy reading.

It’s a beautiful city, and if it weren’t making Clint crouch down in his seat, stiff as a board, Bucky wouldn’t mind spending some more time there. But clearly that’s out of the question. Clint keeps his hood up and his sunglasses on, even though the sky is outcast. Bucky feels cut off, and wonders why it makes him feel so unsettled. He has only just met the man, and clearly there’s something going on that he doesn’t know about, it shouldn’t be surprising that Hawkeye is shutting him out like anyone else.

It’s probably because he can’t be prepared for something he doesn’t know anything about. Clint’s tension is leaking out into him, and he’s preparing for a threat he can’t recognise.

They find a cheap hotel where the stains on the walls aren’t too bad, and they are about to shore up for the night when Clint’s stomach makes a raw gurgle.

Going out for food is a mistake as soon as they step out of the door. Clint’s on edge and his twitchiness is infectious. They are both jumping at shadows.

Down the street there’s an all-night diner. The girl behind the counter barely glances at them as they order the cheapest, most filling things on the menu. Clint chooses a table concealed from the windows with clear lines of sight to all the entrances and exits and hunkers down in it, clearly trying to hide his face from as many people as possible.

The food is probably better than it seems to him, nothing tastes good when you’re wound up so tight, and it lies heavy in his stomach, but it puts some colour back into Clint’s cheeks, and he relaxes some as the meal goes on, even making some conversation with the waitress when she comes over to check on them.

They are on their way back to the hotel room when it happens. Someone looks at them twice. It wouldn’t have been noticeable at all if Bucky hadn’t already been on alert. A woman on the far side of the street narrows her eyes and she elbows her companion, who looks up as well.

“Clint?” he mutters under his breath. “At your eight o’clock.”

Clint, to his credit, seems like he’s quite good at being surreptitious when he wants to be. He looks into the reflection of a shop window instead of directly at the people Bucky mentioned, without even slowing his walking pace. Then he swears under his breath and Bucky moves his hands towards his weapons in as natural a manner as he can.

“I take it they’re not members of the Hawkeye fan club then,” Bucky says.

“Not so much,” Clint replies. “The tattoos on their hands,” Bucky automatically focuses on the thin strip of ink he can see peeking out of the woman’s sleeve. It looks like the edge of a black wing. “They work for Holló.”

“And Holló doesn’t like you?” Bucky says, although he already knows the answer.

“He holds a grudge,” Clint says. “Last time I saw him he promised to rip my spine out through my mouth. I hoped he might be over it by now.”

The two on the other side of the road have started to walk towards them.

“How good are you at losing a tail?” Bucky asks. Clint’s mouth quirks into a crooked half smile.

“Going by what I’ve seen over the last few weeks, better than you,” he says. Bucky glares at him. “I’m okay. You want to split up?”

“No,” Bucky says, without even considering it. There is no question that both of their pursuers would go after Clint rather than after his unknown companion. Clint’s odds are better if they stay together.

Clint looks a little confused, but shrugs. “OK then. I guess we have to do this.”

There aren’t enough people around to vanish into a crowd, but the city is full of nooks and crannies to get lost in. They just have to get far enough ahead.

Clint’s quick on his feet, but Bucky can stay on his heels without being out of breath. The benefits of the Hydra Spa Treatments, he supposes.

“So what exactly did you do to this guy, anyway?” he asks.

Clint takes the time to shoot him an aggrieved look.

“Nothing! Well… nothing serious… I mean…” He heaves a huge breath and vaults the wall in front of them, Bucky following only milliseconds behind. “I might have… sort of… killed his brother. But that was years ago, and the guy was a dick. You’d think he’d be over it by now.”

Bucky risks a look over his shoulder, their pursuers are still there.

“Doesn’t seem like he’s over it.”

“Yeah, some people just hold grudges,” Clint says. “What can you do?”

“His brother deserve to die?”

“Yes,” the answer is certain, sure and fierce.

“Then I guess there’s nothing you coulda done differently.”

They take a few sharp turns. There are more people around now to mask their movements. It seems like they’ve found the neighbourhood where Budapest keeps its night life.

He hauls Hawkeye into the nearest alley, pushing him up against the wall, listening as hard as he can, which is pretty hard, given the fact he has super senses.

Footsteps in the street. Voices speaking Magyar. Bucky doesn’t remember learning the language, but he knows what they’re saying anyway.

“Where did they go?”

“The boss said to keep the hawk alive. He wants to deal with him himself.”

“And the bodyguard?” Bucky almost laughs to hear how they’re referring to him.

“No one will miss him. Find the hawk, kill the other.”

Bucky is aware of the press of Hawkeye’s body up against his own, and he slips back into the moment. The dark of the night had washed all the colour out of them, except the yellow glow of street lights, which pick out Clint’ features, his face set in serious consideration of their situation.

Bucky has been in positions like this before. He remembers.

No.

No. He cannot afford a memory now. They are being pursued. Clint’s life is in danger. Bucky doesn’t have so many friends that losing one sounds like a good idea.

But the smell of the damp brickwork and the slight hint of that odour that only back alleys have, every city the world over. The feeling of a body pushed up against his and the beating of his own heart in his ears, which can’t be for the men hunting them. He is not scared of death.

The music from a nearby club distorts, electronica shifting into something less digital, with more brass instruments blaring out brightly. And Hawkeye’s face is…

_“No one’s gonna see us.”_

_Hands, fumbling between layers of clothing warmed soft by body heat._

_“C’mon… or would ya prefer to go back to your dame?”_

Bucky falls into the rabbit hole of his memories. He doesn’t remember faces. Everything is fractured into pieces. All the men he sees have Clint’s smile, even though he knows that’s not right. Clint wasn’t there. He never caught Clint’s eye in a darkened bar while swing music sang out from the stage. He never tipped his cap at him. Never…

He doesn’t know how long he’s lost in there before he claws his way out, a hole full of warm skin and teasing and the frantic fear of being caught, but when he comes back to himself again – and isn’t that a strange feeling: having a self to come back to – Clint is looking at him, worried, and one warm, callused hand is pressed against the side of Bucky’s face.

“Are you oka-“

Bucky leans forward, it’s not muscle memory, not quite, but there’s a haziness in his mind between want and need and understanding in this moment. He is prompted by some urge he wasn’t even aware he was capable of until right this second, and he presses their lips together, catching Clint’s mouth open – so he takes advantage of the fact.

It’s like a memory and it’s like an entirely new sensation. He didn’t realise that feeling something in just one place could have so many echoes all over his body. It’s like sparks flying through him, and his lips are moving in ways that are revelatory to him, and his tongue is curling and darting out, tasting, pushing, and teasing.

He remembers how to do this. It’s a glorious, heady feeling, like learning to dance. He remembers _dancing_. He remembers the thrum of arousal, the scent of sweat. He herds Clint closer to the wall and crushes them together because he understands that _this_ is what he hadn’t understood. Why he looked, why he hadn’t put Clint in the hospital and run. Why he thinks about him sometimes for no apparent reason. Why he makes Bucky smile.

Hands on his chest push at him. There’s not enough force to actually move him. Human vs Super soldier isn’t really a contest. But he lets himself move back, his lips lingering, pulling away slowly, reluctantly.

“Uh…” Clint says. “Was that a ‘let’s kiss so they don’t notice us’ thing?”

Bucky remembers their pursuers all of a sudden, a cold flush through his body. He snaps from languid to alert in an instant.

“They’re gone,” Clint assures him. “Holló’s hiring idiots, apparently. Nothing new there. We should give it a minute and then head out.” Bucky nods. “You gonna tell me why…” Clint puckers his lips rather than say the words. “I mean. You were kind of out of it for a minute there.”

“I remembered something,” Bucky replies, pulling back. It appears that even if this is the key to his weird blind spot where Clint is concerned, it is a one-sided issue. He should be grateful.

“Like a flashback… of you kissing someone?” Clint says slowly, nodding to himself. “Right.”

“I remembered,” Bucky looks around at the alley. It is not much like New York now he looks at it properly, not much like those places he remembers. “Kissing guys in… “

“Oh… yeah… I guess that makes sense,” Clint looks awkward for a second. “Uh… it wasn’t Cap, right? I mean, not that I’m not OK with that, but it’s just… That would be a bit weird: you mistaking me for Cap… just… weird.”

“Not Steve,” Bucky wants to say that he didn’t mistake Clint for anyone, but words aren’t his strong suit these days and Clint’s already moved away from him towards the mouth of the alley. There will be time for that conversation, he supposes, when they aren’t being chased.

They grab a new car and head out of town. Clint’s still tense until Budapest is in the rear view mirror, but he’s also twitchy again, keeps giving Bucky the side-eye when he thinks Bucky’s too busy driving to notice, but whenever Bucky looks back at him, he’s suddenly very interested in the scenery.

*

They cross two borders in the night, leapfrogging over Slovakia to end up in Poland.

“We should switch cars then double back through Slovakia,” Bucky says. Clint nods. He’s doing the thing where he only looks at Bucky when Bucky’s not looking again, and he’s still quiet. Bucky knows he made him uncomfortable with the kissing thing, and he hates that he took something that was actually working out for him and ruined it, just because he was caught up in the moment. He should have asked Clint, should have waited for Clint to say something.

But it’s too late for that now. Now he’s got to deal with what he’s left himself with, which is a friendship, the first one he’s had in seventy years, that’s stretched to beyond awkward. The only reason he hasn’t left Clint alone so the guy can have some space is because he’s worried that if he leaves him alone, Clint’s going to end up dead.

When they’re sure they’re not being pursued, and Clint is safe, then he’ll bow out. He should apologise, but he can’t quite find the words. Every time he tries it gets stuck on his tongue, because it feels like talking about it is only going to make it all worse.

They find a car park near the side of the road. There’s some sort of national park or other, and the place has about twenty cars in and not a person in sight.

Clint volunteers to do the actual breaking in this time, and he scopes out the cars quickly enough, and manages to get them in with speed born from experience. For a superhero, he seems to have a lot of experience of crime.

Then Bucky remembers what Clint said about the circus that time, and the not so petty crime.

He might have asked, or teased him about it yesterday. But he doesn’t feel like he can right now. He doesn’t want the conversation to be strained, so he’s not having any conversation at all. Maybe it’s better, maybe it’s not.

Clint’s in the process of hotwiring the thing when another car pulls in and Bucky kicks him gently, in case his hearing aids didn’t pick up the engine.

They act like they’re not stealing the car.

The car pulls into a space a little way away from them and a man gets out, he nods to them.

“You ready to go?” Bucky asks, because the two of them sitting here in a car, not doing anything, is going to be noticeable, but Clint shakes his head.

“Not quite, and I don’t wanna go back under there while he’s watching,” he jerks his head towards the man who’s just getting out of his car, still looking at them.

“You think he’s…” Bucky asks. Clint shrugs.

“I don’t recognise him,” he says, “but it’s been years. Holló’s probably hired some new guys by now.”

“Probably.”

“You want me to go and check him out?” Bucky asks. Clint shakes his head and carefully reaches his hands under the dashboard again.

“I can do this by feel,” he says. “We should be out of here in-“

“Hawkeye!” The man’s voice calls out across the car park. Clint’s head doesn’t even twitch. “You are Hawkeye, right?”

Clint finally looks out the window, then sighs and winds it down.

“Sorry,” he says in Polish. “I don’t understand.”

“You are Hawkeye, the archer,” the man says. He makes a gesture with his arms like drawing a bow. “The Avenger.”

“Pardon?” Clint says.

“I recognise you,” the man says, waving a finger. “Please, please… just an autograph. For my daughter. She is a big fan. She loves archery now.”

Clint winces and makes a face.

“Don’t do it, Barton,” Bucky says under his breath.

“Look, if he’s just a fan and I leave him high and dry, then word’s getting out one way or another,” Clint mutters. “If you don’t want anyone finding us, our best bet is to talk to him. I give him an autograph, say I’m on a top secret Avengers mission and everything’s fine.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“If he turns out to be a bad guy, we knock him out, leave him three hundred miles away and drive off into the sunset,” Clint shrugs. “It’ll be fine. You’ve got my back. Just no killing, alright?” He winds the window down.

“You got me,” he says. “Look-“

Before Clint can finish the sentence, the guy’s pulled a gun. It’s pointed directly at Clint’s head.

“I got you alright, Hawkeye. Holló wants a word.”

Bucky swears under his breath. Clint’s shoulders sag, and then all hell breaks loose.

The serum makes Bucky faster and stronger than your average human. It also improved his senses, all of them, so he hears the click of the safety on the gun being switched off and he reaches out to drag Clint down into Bucky’s lap even as he’s reaching for his own knife.

The bullet crashes through the window by Bucky seconds later, and Bucky’s knife is whizzing through the air only moments after that.

Bucky’s out of the car and over the hood before the guy’s recovered from the knife that he almost dodged. It hit his arm, not deep enough to cause a serious problem, but enough to knock him off balance, and then Bucky’s there, right in his face.

“You shouldn’t have come alone,” Bucky says, grabbing the gun even as the guy’s aiming it at him.

It goes off, but Bucky’s left hand stops the bullet. He feels the impact of it reverberate up his arm, but it doesn’t slow him down.

The man drops the gun, walking backwards, but Bucky keeps pace, tosses the gun to one side and advances further.

As the man turns, Bucky’s other hand reaches out to grab his shoulder and pull him back so that Bucky’s metal fist can get a good shot, right to his face.

The man crumples like a house of cards just as Clint’s stumbling, unhurt, out of the car.

 “Shit, did you just kill him? I said no killing!” Clint says, looking at the guy lying on the ground between them. Bucky looks down too. The man’s not moving, and his face is a mess. Bucky’s left hand packs one hell of a punch.

He kneels down to press his fingers to the guy’s throat, but he can’t feel a pulse.

“If I hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed you. I thought maybe you’d prefer to keep breathing,” Bucky says, narrowing his eyes.

“We’re the good guys, remember, we don’t randomly kill guys by the side of the road.”

“Even if they’re going to kill other people?” Bucky asks and Clint’s face twists.

“Look… I used to have… when shit went down and people died I used to have SHIELD to clear it all up for me. There’s nothing like a shadowy government organisation for making things disappear. They had an entire team dedicated to it.” Clint waves a hand at the body. “Poof, gone. Found dead two hundred miles away in a boating accident. Very sad. Coroner rules accidental death. No one asks questions. And you… well, you had Hydra doing… well… not the same thing. But you did the killing, you never cared about the clean-up, right?”

Bucky glares at him, because he’s doing a really good job of _not talking about that_ , and Clint is now tap-dancing all over the subject with the grace of a rhinoceros.

“And before that… you were in a war. Bodies were everywhere. It’s war, people die. If you kill a Nazi who gives a damn? But… this isn’t a war. Hydra are dicks, SHIELD is gone and it’s _just us_. So now we’ve got a dead body in a foreign country and what the fuck are we gonna do about that?”

Bucky looks at him, then looks at the dead guy. Clint, though Bucky is loath to admit it, has a point. They are trying to fly under the radar. They are not very good at it, but they are trying. Leaving a corpse behind is not good stealth.

“Put him in the trunk,” he says.

“Put him what now?”

“In the trunk,” Bucky says. “We take his car. We put him in the trunk. We abandon the car over the border, set fire to it, and steal a new one.”

“You… shit,” Clint looks at the body, looks at Bucky. The man’s friends with the Black Widow, Bucky wouldn’t think he’d be so squeamish. He also knows Hawkeye’s kill count, and not all of those deaths were in the heat of the moment. That’s not what marksmen do. Maybe it’s being so up close and personal.

“Cap’s gonna kill me,” Clint mutters.

“Cap ain’t here,” Bucky says. “Now help me get this guy into the trunk.”

“So we’re crossing a country border with a body in the trunk.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Just trying to keep track of how many felonies I’m building up. Do you think if we get to ten then we get a free meal?” Clint does reach for the dead guy’s legs, though, and together they heft him into the trunk of the car. There’s an awkward moment of body juggling when they both realise that the car’s still locked and they have to work out where the guy put his keys. They only drop the guy once though, and he’s already dead, so it’s not like he feels it.

They don’t really build car trunks for body disposal, which is very short-sighted of the car manufacturers in Bucky’s mind.

“Maybe I should make a blog where I rank cars in order of how good they are if you need to dispose of a body,” Clint says as they rearrange they guy as best they can to get him to fit. “Rankings on trunk space, how noticeable the car is to police, flammability, general serial killer aesthetic. I could probably get some followers.”

“The FBI, for one,” Bucky says.

“Was that a joke?” Clint asks. “Are you joking with me, Barnes? This is bonding, right? You don’t talk to me all night and a little group murder is enough to get us bonding.”

“That was me pointing out that you’re going to get yourself arrested.”

“Aw… he likes me,” Clint says to the dead guy. “He really likes me.”

“And people say I’m messed up in the head,” Bucky slams the trunk lid down a little harder than necessary. Clint doesn’t have to tease him about it. “Now… you notice any CCTV in the area?”

“None.”

“So we’re good.”

“Unless we were caught on satellite,” Clint says, waving a hand at the sky. “Big Brother’s always watching.”

“Big brother?” Bucky asks. Clint blinks at him.

“I guess Nineteen Eighty-Four was a bit after your time. And Hydra probably weren’t big fans of anti-authoritarian literature. Unless that’s where they got some of their ideas from.”

“Anti-authoritarian?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow. Clint blinks.

“I read the blurb,” Clint says with a shrug. “I can read.”

Bucky’s pretty sure Clint’s read the whole book.

“Sure you can,” Bucky says, pretending sarcasm. “I bet you know how to get to Neverland, too.”

“You know Peter Pan?” They cross round to the doors of the car, Bucky making sure he’s driving, but Clint doesn’t seem inclined to protest. Bucky thinks for a minute. Does he know Peter Pan? The words had come to him, and he sort of remembers… a fire, and warm bodies huddled around him. A woman’s voice reading out to them.

“I think…” Bucky considers it for a moment as he turns the keys in the ignition. “I think my ma read it to us.” Clint’s looking at him. “I remember… _All children, except one, grow up_.”

“Yeah… I always loved the film. I always wanted to be one of the lost boys – and fight pirates.”

Bucky’s eyes catch his reflection in the rear-view mirror as he adjusts it, still the same face as it was seventy years ago, barely an extra wrinkle to show for it, though more than a few scars. _All children except one_ … He huffs. Guess him and Stevie got a bit lost along the way, too.

*

“What was that?” Bucky asks. Clint’s only half awake, drowsing in the passenger seat.

“What was wha’?” he asks, opening one eye to look over at Bucky.

The noise comes again. A definite, clear banging sound from behind them. Clint sits up straight.

“Fuck…” Clint says, looking over his shoulder. “You don’t think.”

“I think it’s coming from the trunk.”

“It can’t be,” Clint says. “That guy was dead. You killed him. That guy was very dead.”

The sound comes again.

“Oh shit…” Clint says. “What if he _is_ dead?”

“What?”

“I mean… we started out in Romania, right. Romania, Transylvania, Vampires. What if we killed and abducted Dracula?”

Bucky takes a second to process this information.

“You think we have a vampire in the trunk?”

“I don’t know! All I’m saying is that we put a dead guy in the trunk and now –“ There is another bang. “If you have a better explanation...”

“Maybe a… bird got in?” Bucky says.

“A bird?”

“Yeah, a bird.”

“That’s…” Another bang. “Pull over. Pull over.” Clint waves his hand. Bucky glares at him, but does so. The banging comes again.

“We have a zombie in the trunk,” Clint says. “I mean, aliens are one thing, but zombies. Alright… one of us has to go and check that the dead guy’s still dead.”

“It’s a bird.”

“Or you suck at checking a pulse,” Clint suggests. Bucky glares at him.

“I’ll go,” Bucky says. If the guy is alive, he has more chance of not being hurt than Clint.

“I’m not a damsel in distress, you know,” Clint says, crossing his arms. “I’m an Avenger.”

“I know,” Bucky says.

“You just shoved me down in that car and-“

“He was aiming at your head, I’m quicker than you.”

“Well thanks for the vote of confidence,” Clint says.

“It was easier.”

“Easier than letting me get in the way,” Clint says. Bucky glares at him, because that is sort of what he means, but he wasn’t going to say it. “Look, I can pull my weight, alright?”

“Alright.”

The banging comes again.

“Maybe we should both check the trunk,” Clint says. Bucky nods, pulling his knife. “Oh no. No killing. We are not killing this guy. We’re good guys remember.”

“If he tries to kill you again,” Bucky warns. Clint makes a face, but nods after a second.

“That’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?” He sighs and opens the door. “OK, let’s go and see what our zombie has to say.” He pulls his bow from the back of the car and heads round to the trunk, leaving Bucky scrambling to keep up with him.

They look at the trunk, neither one willing to open it for a second, before the banging starts again and Bucky gets impatient, and steps forward. Next to him, Clint nocks an arrow, aiming it to where the trunk’s going to open.

“On three,” Clint says. “One… two…

“Three,” Bucky finishes, swinging open the trunk.

It turns out Bucky is not good at checking whether people are alive or not. Maybe the sensitivity in his left hand fingers just wasn’t good enough, but it seems like their unwilling passenger is not very happy at having been brought along, and very much still alive.

He spits in Bucky’s face, but then an arrow flies between them and hits the bottom of the trunk. The head explodes on impact, causing clouds of grey smoke to erupt. Bucky is pulled out of the way.

“Knock out arrow,” Clint says, as they turn back to watch their guest slump back in the trunk. “Should keep him out for three hours or so, concentrated dose like that. They’re pretty potent.” Bucky looks at him curiously. “I told you we weren’t going to kill him. This way we can find a way to drip him off with the nearest police. There’s almost certainly a warrant out for him.”

“He can tell them where I am,” Bucky says. Clint pauses and frowns. “And he can tell them you’re with me. The Winter Soldier is wanted in 140 countries.”

“Shit, you were pretty busy while you were with Hydra, huh?” Clint says. “OK. New plan. We find a place to stash him and then we deal with this in the morning.”

“The morning?”

“Yeah, I’m tired. It’s already past sunset,” Clint says. “We didn’t sleep last night because this guy’s friends decided to run us out of town. Stash him somewhere, get some sleep.”

“OK,” Bucky says. Clint’s right. He can feel the tiredness when he thinks about it. Even super soldiers need to sleep. This guy will wait till morning.

They find an abandoned building in the next town. It’s run down, but the area’s empty enough that their new friend shouldn’t be able to raise a fuss. It was clearly a house, and it’s still furnished. There’s a basement where they can tie the guy up.

Bucky hauls him out of the car and into the house, carrying him down the stairs.

He’s obviously tired, and when the guy comes round, he’s not paying enough attention.

The guy gets a foot free, and that’s all it takes. He hammers his heel down into the side of Bucky’s head and there’s a moment where his brain just sort of wobbles. He’s been hit in the head a million times, but this catches him off guard and he can’t quite react in time.

There’s a shovel against a wall nearby, and as Bucky’s rolling over onto his feet, the guy lunges for it, grabbing it and turning to bring it down on Bucky’s head.

Bucky’s about to go for him, when there’s a blur of movement and suddenly the world moves like molasses. The blur is Clint. He tackles the guy from the side, the force of his movement throwing them both into the far corner.

They’re grappling as Bucky gets to his feet, but he can’t seem to move fast enough. The corner is a tangle of limbs and then the prisoner’s rolling free, grabbing the shovel again as he goes. Clint’s saying something, something insulting of course.

The guy’s moving, right as Bucky’s going for his knife.  He swings, aiming right for Clint’s head.

Bucky’s guts twist, his heart in his throat, as the flat metal scoop whooshes through the air towards Clint’s head, edge on. He knows that if it connects it’s going to be messy. The speed and the strength behind it will cave Clint’s skull in.

He’s too far away, too slow. He’s yelling Clint’s name, but what good’s that going to do.

Clint ducks, quick enough only by a moment, the shovel hits the hairs sticking up from his head. Then he’s throwing himself forward in another tackle to the guy’s middle, throwing them both up against the wall and knocking the air out of the guy’s lungs.

Bucky gets there right after that, and the two of them haul their prisoner to the chair, tying him down and duct taping his mouth shut.

Bucky knocks him out again and Clint winces.

“Repeated head trauma is not fun,” he says. Bucky doesn’t even justify that with a response. He goes around the room, collecting everything he could consider a weapon. He checks the ropes tying him up repeatedly. He checks the gag, then he carries everything up the stairs to the first floor with him and barricades the door with all the heaviest items of furniture he can find. There are no windows down there. So the guy’s not getting out.

He practically pushes Clint up the stairs and into the bedroom, everything winding up tightly in his stomach. He sees that shovel go flying towards Clint’s head again and again. And he knows what it would have looked like if it had connected. He has seen enough skulls caved in, enough brain matter spattered across walls. He keeps seeing it, has to keep one eye on Clint just to remember that that’s not what happened. Clint is alive.

They barely get into the room before Bucky grabs Clint by the arm. Everything erupts out of him.

“What were you _thinkin’_?” he demands. “You coulda got your dumb ass killed. I had it handled.”

“I’m the one they’re after!” Clint shouts back, lifting a finger to prod it into the centre of Bucky’s chest. “You know what Cap’ll do to me if I get you killed?”

“Trust me, killing me ain’t easy. They’re welcome to try,” Bucky says, flexing his metal arm so the plates shift. “An’ you dyin’ is not an option.”

“Me dying is _always_ an option,” Clint says, like it’s that easy, like it doesn’t even matter, like he doesn’t know anything about anything. “That’s my job. I’m an Avenger. I _used_ to be a SHIELD agent. I fight _aliens_ with a bow and arrow. I’m not a super soldier. I’m not a mega billionaire genius with a metal suit of armour. I’m not a fucking _god_. I’m gonna die. The only questions are how long can I hold out before fate finally catches up with me and how much of a difference I can make before that happens.”

“You dying is _not an option_ ,” Bucky repeats. Because he has to make that clear. He has to try and get through Clint’s stupid thick skull.

“Look. If it’s me or you,” Clint says, serious in a way he seldom ever is. “I’m going to make the same call. Every time.” The fight goes out of him a bit, like he’s deflated, and there is a raw honesty in his gaze. He looks tired, and Bucky’s heart is still flooded with adrenaline. “I’m kind of an idiot, y’know. No sense of self preservation.” He sounds like he actually believes it. “And you’ve sort of grown on me.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Bucky tells him. His voice is low. He’d meant it as a reprimand, but to his own ears it sounds more like yearning. “And you’ve sort of grown on me too.”

“Like a fungal infection?” Clint asks, stepping back and turning away with a weak grin.

“No… not like a fungal infection,” Bucky says. He reaches out a hand to stroke a finger down the line of Clint’s neck. The world seems soft all of a sudden, like the harsh reality is cut off from them, and he can’t quite resist the touch. A bruise is forming where his fingers touch, coming up a livid purple against Clint’s skin. Clint’s whole body shivers at the touch, his eyes flicking back to Bucky’s, though his head is still tilted away.

“You having another flashback?” Clint asks.

“Believe me,” Bucky says. “Clint…” Clint blinks at the sound of his name. “Hawkeye. I am very much in the present day right now.” He had thought, in the alley, that Clint didn’t want this. But maybe it wasn’t a question of not wanting Bucky. Maybe it was just a question of timing. Looking at Clint now, his pupils blown, his lips parted slightly, it doesn’t seem like he’s not interested. His skin beneath Bucky’s fingers is heated. “You wanna come in the present with me?” he asks.

There’s a moment as the tension mounts and they stare at each other. Bucky can feel it climbing under his skin, like the moments before a fight, but strangely different, because instead of looming overhead and pushing him down, this feels more like it’s lifting him up.

The moment is shattered by a burst of laughter as Clint double up.

“I can’t believe you just _said_ that!” Clint howls.

Bucky pulls back.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he mutters.

“Not that bad? Oh… oh man… did you _hear_ yourself?”

“Seriously?” Bucky asks. Clint’s leaning over, hands clenched on his thighs, chest heaving and… oh god, he’s crying with laughter. Bucky pulls even further back and crosses his arms over his chest. The whine of the servos in his arm is comfortingly familiar. He feels like he’s missed a step, lost his rhythm. “I ain’t exactly had much opportunity in the last few decades,” he points out. “You could just say ‘no’. There’s no need to…”

“Oh no,” Clint straightens up suddenly. “Don’t you dare take it back. That was perfect. People always tell me that my lines are bad. But that was beautiful.”

“Great,” Bucky tells him, scuffing a foot against the threadbare carpet of the hotel room. “I’m glad I gave you a good laugh,” Bucky says. He turns away to scowl at the solitary bed in the centre of the room. Well, things are gonna be awkward now. Even more awkward. He shouldn’t have tried. He knows that Clint isn’t interested, but he had to go and push.

“Aw… Buck, no!” Clint says. “Seriously, I’m being a dick. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Look, forget it,” Bucky says, trying to make the bed spontaneously split into two. “It was a dumb idea. I know I’m not… I’m a mess.”

“Have you seen me?” Clint asks. “It really wasn’t a dumb idea. I mean… Aw hell… I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” He’s talking almost to himself at the end, all laughter gone from his tone.

Bucky tries to ignore the shifting and movement behind him. He had forgotten the sting of rejection and the underlying hiss of humiliation. He guesses that not everything Hydra wiped out was sunshine and puppies.

“Hey Buck,” Clint says after a moment. Bucky waits to see what he’s going to say, but it’s clear that nothing’s coming if he doesn’t turn around. He turns eventually. Clint’s standing shirtless, which makes Bucky’s mouth go dry. His memories are all of furtive, hurried trysts, fully dressed so you could get away easily. This is… well… that’s a whole lotta skin on display. And it’s not that he hasn’t seen a man’s chest before. It’s not that he hasn’t seen _Clint’s_ chest before, but there’s a look in Clint’s eyes, it’s dark and a little heated, and the smirk on his face is damn right indecent. “Wanna put an arrow in my quiver?”

Bucky stares at him for a long second. Clint stares back.

Then they’re both laughing.

“Told you my lines were bad,” Clint says. “Seriously, though. If you really want this – I know you’re still figuring out who you are – then I’m up for it…” he looks down towards what’s a reasonably impressive bulge in his pants. “Literally.”

That starts them both chuckling again, like kids who’ve just discovered what dirty jokes are. Bucky’s feeling light again, almost lighter than air.

“I’m pretty sure who I am right now,” Bucky says, allowing himself to smile, the slow lazy smile he remembers giving to people who looked twice at him, men and women.

“And who’s that?” Clint asks, stalking forwards with the sort of grace he only ever seems to have when he puts his mind to it. Bucky’s enjoying the view, but he takes a moment to pull his shirt off, then sits down on the bed, leaning back against the wall and propping one arm behind his head.

“The guy whose name you’re gonna be screaming,” he says, letting his lips quirk up just that little bit more.

“That was almost smooth,” Clint says, smiling back, a little softer, but it sharpens as his gaze dips down Bucky’s body. It’s a good feeling, having someone look at him like that. Not like he’s an object to be used and put away, but like he’s something desirable, like he’s something that you can _want_. It gives him a rush of power and heat all over his body. “Cliché, but smooth.”

“Wasn’t cliché when I started using it,” Bucky tries. Clint chuckles, but it’s not the full blown laughter of earlier.”

“Pretty sure it was cliché for the cavemen, Buck. But nice try,” Clint says. He’s within reach now, but Bucky doesn’t reach for him. There’s a sort of unreal quality to the conversation, like they have yet to reach the point where all of this will crystallise into reality. One touch, he thinks, to anchor it and they’ll pass the point of no return.

He’s enjoying the anticipation, still fizzing up inside him. It almost burns, but it’s a good sort of burn.

“OK,” Clint says, pausing just by the side of the bed. “I hate to break the mood and be serious but… I gotta check. I’m not the best at making good dickcisions, but – wait… decisions. Good decisions.” He bites his lip and Bucky grins.

“I think dickcisions might be more relevant – although it does sound a little more like –

“- don’t say it –“

“- circumcision.”

“Yeah… I ruined the moment,” Clint says. “I shouldn’t talk. But I just wanted to double check you were sure about this. I mean, sometimes I rush into things.”

“I’ve been staring at your ass since we met,” Bucky says, which is true. Admittedly, at first he hadn’t actually understood why, but it was still true.

“It’s a damn fine ass.”

“And I’ve been wanting to touch you for… I don’t even know…”

“Yeah?” Clint asks. “So what you’re saying is that you’re overwhelmed by my sheer animal magnetism.”

“What I’m saying is that if you wanna do this then you’d better get on this bed pretty sharp before I start without you,” Bucky says, trailing a hand down his chest. He feels a thrill of power again as he watches Clint swallow at the sight.

“Fuck that’s tempting,” Clint says.

“Well, if you’d prefer…” Bucky says, starting to undo the button of his jeans.

“No, nope… audience participation, definitely happening.” Clint reaches out a hand slowly, like he’s a bit worried that Bucky’s going to run away. It’s too slow, and the fizzing in Bucky’s veins is flowing over. He darts out his other hand to grab Clint’s arm and pull him down.

*

Clint isn’t in the bed with him when he wakes up.

As soon as Bucky realises that, he jerks upright, fully awake, scanning the room. It’s a little dilapidated, cobwebs in the corners, but there’s no Clint.

There is, however, a note on the table next to him.

‘ _Gone to get coffee. Keep the bed warm for me._ ’

Bucky waits forty five minutes before getting up to check on their prisoner.

The door to the basement is still barricaded and when he goes down, the man’s still tied to the chair, glaring at him angrily.

Bucky leaves him there, barricades the door again and contemplates Clint.

They had driven past a small grocery store the night before. That’s probably where he went, but it was ten minutes’ walk at most, and it doesn’t take twenty five minutes to buy some coffee.

The clock in the hall is still ticking, marking time for owners who are never coming back.

It has now been almost an hour. Still no Clint. And Bucky doesn’t know how long he was gone before Bucky woke up.

He wraps his scarf around his neck, over his mouth to hide his face, and pulls his baseball cap on again before he heads out to the shop himself. He sweeps the area almost unconsciously, trying to see anything out of the ordinary, hoping he’s not going to catch sight of Clint’s body. When he reaches the store, he heads inside and goes down every single aisle systematically. As he gets back to the checkout, he grabs a newspaper, so it won’t seem too suspicious and pulls out a smile for the woman behind the till, who just blinks at him, unimpressed.

“Busy morning?” he asks in passable Slovak. She shrugs.

“Not really. Just the usual people, mostly.” Bucky’s jaw tightens, but the woman continues. “You from out of town?” she asks, and he nods. “Huh. Second one today. Don’t usually get many people from out of town.”

Bucky doesn’t comment, but that could have been Clint. He hopes it was Clint.

He thanks her and tucks the newspaper under his arm as he makes his way back to the house.

He’s halfway there when his eyes catch on a pinprick of purple, down by the edge of the wall. His heart stutters in his chest and he leans down to pick it up.

One purple hearing aid.

Clint’s been taken.

The car. They should have ditched the car. It belonged to the people following them. They should have ditched the car.

He heads back to the house, knowing exactly what he’s got to do.

It isn’t pretty and it isn’t pleasant. But the man gives him the information he needs, a location, a place that Clint would have been taken.

When Bucky’s halfway there he phones an ambulance and tells them where to look, because Clint had been adamant that they were not going to kill that guy.

Bucky should probably be grateful he listened, or he’d have nothing to go on now at all.

The place he is heading is an old soviet base with an airfield. Bucky even recognises the name. He has been there before. He knows he has. As he drives his (newly stolen) car towards it, he sees things that bring back memories. He remembers these roads. He remembers someone speaking to him in Russian about a mission he was about to undertake.

Holló could not have known it, but the place he has taken Clint is one of the worst places you could possibly go when you’re on the run from the Winter Soldier.

Bucky does not have a gun. He is regretting that now, but he has no contacts in the area, has no way of getting one in time. He has two of his own knives and a couple he had taken from the kitchen of the house they had stayed in last night. Those will have to be enough. He can take the guns from the people he takes out.

He already knows the layout of the base, knows the place that Clint is most likely being held, and knows his cleanest route in.

But he doesn’t know how many people Holló has there, he doesn’t know what sort of weaponry they will have. When he was there, the armoury had been full of weapons that could disintegrate a person, he’s got to hope that none of those were left behind when the previous occupants abandoned it. He doubts they would have left them willingly.

He pulls up to the perimeter in the afternoon, and cuts through the fence in one of the most concealed places, making the most of natural cover.

He keeps to the trees until he sees a security patrol.

There are three men in the patrol, two of them seem to be talking to each other, sharing a cigarette back and forth; only the third is paying attention. So it’s the third man that Bucky takes out first. His knife slides into his throat before he can call out and he collapses to the floor, making only a gurgling noise.

The other two go down just as quickly. Bucky has no time to worry about keeping them alive. Every second he takes getting in is one more second that Clint has to stay alive, and he’s not sure how good Clint’s going to be at that. His survival instincts are terrible, and he has a habit of trying to annoy everyone he meets. Even if Holló didn’t already have it out for him, it’s a reasonable assumption that ten minutes in a room together with Clint Barton might end in the same way.

He takes a rifle and a pistol from their bodies and moves on as quickly and quietly as he can.

The side entrance is under minimal guard. They obviously don’t expect people to find it, half buried as it is.

Bucky takes the steps down, and pushes back the memories that are threatening to overcome him. There are so many here. If he let himself, they would flood in: memories of orders and treatment and training, memories of the chair and of debriefings.

He continues on. The soviet style of grey on grey is very much in evidence here, everything is hard concrete lines. The concrete floors are good for one thing, though – he can hear footsteps coming a mile off, and voices resound around the walls.

He ducks into a side passage as two men pass him, then steps out behind them to slit their throats. Clint will probably be horrified by the loss of life, so will Steve, if he ever finds out, but they aren’t here right now.

The next person he comes across is alone, and he pushes them into the wall, demands to know where the prisoner is being kept in a harsh whisper. The location is given up and he breaks their neck. He doesn’t have long before someone finds the bodies. But the information has confirmed where he had assumed they would be keeping Clint. It’s always useful to get verification.

The alarm goes up only a few seconds later, and he darts into a side room to avoid a thunder of footsteps that are running down the corridor, more people than he can safely take out without drawing excess attention to his location. He hears them as they start shouting, though. They’re not talking about an intruder. They’re talking about an escape.

“The prisoner has escaped. He took out Sabéa,” one of them is saying as they go past. Whatever reply he gets is lost as they continue on down the corridor. Bucky allows himself a smirk at the fact that the idiots underestimated Clint, until he realises that now, rather than heading for one place, he’s got the whole compound to search. He sighs. He should have known that Clint wouldn’t make this easy for him.

It’s best to be systematic again. The whole place is in chaos now, searching for their escaped prisoner. At least Clint’s escape means that they won’t be looking for him. They’ll assume that any bodies they find are Clint’s handiwork.

That doesn’t help him when they run right into him, though. He’s forced to resort to the gun when a group of six come at him. The sound of it echoes down the corridors, announcing the fight to anyone who cares to hear it, and he knows he’s got to finish it up quickly and get out of there.

The guards are well armed, but not well trained. They telegraph their moves, and they don’t think quickly on their feet. It’s simple enough, though one manages to get a lucky shot at Bucky’s leg in the process. He ignores it and heads away from the sound of shouting voices, wondering where the fuck Clint has got to.

He doubts Clint knows the layout like he does. That was a burst of luck that they can’t expect to happen twice. So where would he go?

It’s an impossible question to answer, so he just continues as he was before, checking the rooms he comes to one by one, hoping that Clint’s already out of there, but having a sinking feeling that he’s not. He’s grateful for the alarm, because even if it is loud and obnoxious, every second it’s sounding means that Clint’s still free.

He checks another room, what is probably a breakroom, he guesses. There’s a television and a watercooler in the corner. He’s about to turn around and go out again when he hears something, just on the edge of his hearing, a whisper or a groan.

“Bucky.”

He thinks, for a second, that he’s imagining it, but it comes again.

Bucky steps into the room more fully and closes the door behind him, scanning the room frantically. But he’s looked everywhere. He’s checked everything.

He hears his name again, and traces the sound upwards.

There are lockers in the corner of the room, connected to the ceiling, but between the tops of the locker doors and the ceiling there’s blank metal, about eight inches of it or so. At the end, where the side of the lockers are, there’s a vent. Under the vent, there’s a plastic chair.

Bucky crosses the room in three paces. The chair creaks ominously under his weight when he steps on it, but it doesn’t buckle.

“Clint?” he asks, and gets a groan in reply.

“How d’you find me?”

Bucky hooks his fingers under the end of the vent and pulls it up, it swings freely, and when it lifts, he finds himself face to face with Clint, who’s grinning at him around an impressive fat lip. Bucky doesn’t even think before leaning in to kiss him.

“Hm, that’s nice,” Clint says as Bucky pulls away, running his tongue over his lips. “You think you can get us both out of here?”

“Status?” Bucky asks. The word comes easily to him, although he knows it’s not the most comforting thing he could have said. It’s easier to fall back into old patterns.

“Bruised to hell, probably a concussion, but I’m mobile,” Clint says. Bucky nods.

“Need help getting out?” he asks.

Clint considers it for a moment then grins again.

“You just want an excuse to grope me,” he says, starting to wiggle out and then wincing.

It takes both of them to get Clint out of there. Clint seems to have been truthful in his account of his injuries, but ‘bruised to hell’ is a little more extensive than Bucky had thought.

He takes a gun off Bucky gratefully, and he can stand up. There’s no time to worry about more than that. If they don’t get out of this place, Clint’s not going to get any medical attention.

Bucky heads to the door and nods at Clint, whose hands are holding steady, Clint nods back, and then they’re moving.

Bucky takes them out the quickest way, and they pick off people they come across. Clint’s aim is perfect, even with the concussion, and his hands don’t waver at all. They move easily together, and it’s reminiscent of the way Bucky used to fight with the commandoes. They would know where to go, without talking about it. Steve would move one way, Bucky would move the other. Dernier would nod to him and Bucky would immediately know what he had to do. It’s a synergy he never felt as the Winter Soldier. He was always alone when he fought like that. He wasn’t a member of the team, he was the weapon. They were fighting around him, all they did was aim him in the right direction.

This is different, this is team work. He swings one way and Clint goes the other. Clint aims for the guy on the right, Bucky takes down the woman on the left. It’s not seamless, there’s one time when they both shoot a guy right in the head and then look at each other, but it’s… Bucky doesn’t think he should be so happy killing people, but there’s exhilaration to the feeling of belonging that he wants to hold on to with both hands.

They make it out of the base, before they’re spotted by someone they can’t see and a voice rings out, calling their location.

Luck has run out. But there’s a clear run through the compound buildings to one of the armoured vehicles that Bucky knows can get them out of here. It’s just a question of getting from here to there.

There are voices behind them and the sound of guns fired, and bullets hitting walls.

“Head for the car,” he says to Clint, pushing him ahead, “I’ll be right behind you.” He turns so he’s running half backwards, bringing up the gun he had taken to fire off shots at the men emerging from the base. There are dozens of them, and he realises that he has significantly underestimated the enemy’s forces. He takes out three, five, but there are still more shooting at them.

Bucky hears the grunt as clear as if there were no other noise around. Even over the shouting and the shooting he’s still tuned into Clint’s voice enough that he picks it up. He risks a glance over his shoulder and sure enough, Barton’s stumbling, bleeding from his side, but he’s still shooting. His arms aren’t shaking, but his face is pale.

Clint was already in a bad way from whatever beating they’d given him when they took him down. The likelihood of him making it to the getaway car Bucky has lined up without assistance is microscopically small.

Bucky assesses their options, watching Clint stumble. His hand, which had been reaching for his quiver, pulls down fast to clutch at his side. He tries to wave Bucky on with his bow arm, but Bucky sets his jaw and shakes his head firmly.

_“Not without you_ ,” his own voice echoes in his ears. He knows what kind of man he is. He is the kind of man who uses terrible pick-up lines. He’s the kind of man who feels better when he has a gun on him. He’s the kind of man who likes his coffee without sugar and his pancakes covered in maple syrup. His name is James Buchanan Barnes and he is not the kind of man who leaves a man behind.

He has two guns, one rifle, but not enough ammunition to take out all of the men coming after them. Looking at Clint’s gun, he’s all but out himself, their odds are still not good.

“Get out of here, Barnes!” Clint shouts when he sees that Bucky’s focused on him and not the car.

“Not gonna happen,” Bucky tells him. He could throw Clint over his shoulder and run for it, but the odds of Clint getting hit again are too high. He goes for the only option he can see. He grabs Clint and pulls him behind the corner of the nearby building. It’s a dead end. Fuck. They had needed cover but…

He can work with this, he tells himself. He’s just remember what hope is, he’s not about to forget it now.

“What happened to ‘survival is the highest mandate’?” Clint asks. He’s crouching on the ground, breathing steady but shallow. The breathing of a person who is used to cracked ribs, which makes Bucky frown even harder.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, checking his guns and aiming them at where the enemies are sure to appear, sooner rather than later.

“Look. If you go, I can… I have a panic button. Stark gave them to all of us,” Clint pulls a small black egg out of his pocket. “I break the shell, it’s a beacon. The Avengers come in, all guns blazing.”

“An’ how long’ll it take ‘em to get here?” Bucky asks. One of their pursuers steps into view and he steps in front of Clint’s crouched form, shooting the guy between the eyes.

“Depends where they are,” Clint says. “The quinjet’s pretty fast.”

Bucky takes that to mean that Clint has no idea where the Avengers are. No matter how fast the quinjet is, there’s no way to make it 10,000 miles before Clint ends up dead. Not if Bucky leaves him, anyway.

“Break the shell,” Bucky says as he raises the rifle to his shoulder.

“You don’t want to come in yet.”

“I don’t want you dead, either. You keep talking about what Steve’ll do to you if something happens to me. You thought about what he’ll do to me if something happens to you?” Or that red-headed assassin friend of his. From what Clint says, Bucky’s pretty sure that anyone responsible for Clint’s death is going to find new meaning for the word pain.

“They won’t know you were here… Las they knew I was on a mission in Switzerland, then my own stupidity had me run into some old friends.”

“If I leave-” Bucky takes out another two guys. He’s got to make every bullet count now. “-you die. I can deal with Stevie.”

“Bucky…”

“Shut up. I’m not goin’ anywhere. So shut up and let me save your life.”

He risks a look over his shoulder and he holds Clint’s gaze as the man raises the little black egg, then slams it down against the floor.

“Let’s hope someone’s listening,” Bucky says.

“JARVIS is always listening,” Clint tells him.

Three more people appear and Bucky takes them down. He’s down to maybe two bullets at a pinch. Clint’s moving behind him, working something out of his pocket, but Bucky can’t afford to look, there’s too much going on.

He shoots the next guy to appear and the gun clicks to empty. Whoever he took it from hadn’t had a full clip. He curses and throws it to the side. He could try to grab a weapon from one of the men fallen outside, but then he’d expose himself to the shooting again. He pulls his knife instead.

Men pour around the corner, all aiming at them, and Bucky glares them down. He can take out maybe a handful, but they’re aiming at Clint as well and he’s not sure what to do about that.

Then a man steps between them. He’s dressed in an immaculate suit and his long hair is greying at the temples and tied back slickly behind his head. The look on his face makes Bucky’s skin crawl. He’s seen that look before, usually on the faces of his crueller handlers.

“You cannot win,” the man says.

“Holló,” Clint shouts. “I’m a fucking Avenger. You don’t want to do this.”

“So you said back when my interrogators were dealing with you,” Holló says. “But I think you’ll find I do. It is a matter of honour.”

“You have no honour,” Clint says. He’s breathing hard, and his voice sounds a bit wheezy, Bucky risks a look at him, and he’s going pale. There’s blood slipping out between his fingers. “You’re a worm. You didn’t even like your brother. You tried to kill him yourself.”

“Yes,” Holló agrees. “But I am family. You…” Holló’s face twists into something ugly and bitter. “Are an American spy. Revenge is necessary.”

“We did you a favour,” Clint says. His voice is getting weaker. “Last chance. Let him go,” he gestures to Bucky, “and you can do what you want with me.” Bucky hears a strange growl come from his mouth. That’s not happening, no matter what Clint might say, he’s not going to leave him here.

“I think not,” Holló says. “Your friend here has killed many of my men. He has infiltrated my base, and he has helped my brother’s murderer. That insult cannot go unpunished.” He takes a gun from the man next to him and raises it to point at Bucky’s head. “Say goodbye, Hawkeye.”

“Goodbye, asshole,” Clint says. There comes a sound that Bucky is intimately familiar with, a faint click, and as he turns to Clint, something flies past his head, over the people who are standing around the opening between the buildings, and there is a _clunk_ as metal hits metal and the grenade hits one of the armoured vehicles, just out of Bucky’s sight. Everything goes quiet.

Then sound roars around them.

Bucky has survived several explosions, but he will never grow used to the force that they give out. It’s less like wind and more like a wall of pressure that passes through him, rocking him on his feet. The grenade hits the fuel tank of the vehicle, landing exactly where Clint wanted it to land, which explodes as well and the force of the blast hits Holló’s forces. There are screams and shouts of pain, but the roar of the explosion comes over all of them.

Bucky is moving immediately. He knows better than to wait, and his knife comes down on Holló’s wrist, the one holding the gun. The arm buckles and the man stares as Bucky yanks the blade back out and then spins it towards his head.

It’s a shame to ruin such a nice suit, a part of Bucky thinks, but there are other suits in the world, not worn by guys who need to die quite so much.

Holló falls to the ground with Bucky’s knife in his head, and then Bucky goes after the guys who aren’t running.

Some of them, the more loyal ones he assumes, come at him, trying to find a way to aim their guns, but they don’t have a chance. He has fought better men than them before. The explosion and the ensuing chaos have thinned out their numbers enough that he can handle these.

He doesn’t even need his knife, though he does pull a gun off one, to shoot another in the chest.

He doesn’t even think about it, just takes them down one after another after another. He was created to be a weapon and he chooses to use those skills now.

They fall around him, collapsing to the floor, their blood mingling with the puddles that were already there, until he’s surrounded by bodies, and amongst them, Clint.

He runs to his side, but Clint’s eyes are unfocused, his breath is thready and weak. Bucky’s hands don’t shake as he reaches out for him, but that’s not for lack of concern.

Clint’s gone into shock. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness and he’s shivering. Bucky wraps him up in layers and pulls him over to the side, away from the bodies and the rest of the blood, so they’re sitting, Clint propped against Bucky’s front, between his legs. They’re pressed together, sharing heat again, just like that first time under those ratty blankets in the filthy hotel room.

“You should feel honoured,” Bucky whispers, even though he knows Clint is too far gone to hear him. “I don’t do this for all the boys.”

The Avengers are coming. He knows Steve will never leave a member of his team in danger. But Bucky doesn’t know how far away they are. He doesn’t know if they’ll make it. He has his metal hand over Clint’s wound, pressing the makeshift bandages in, because the metal arm does not get tired. His other hand is in position over Clint’s heart, feeling every beat. It’s getting weaker.

Bucky doesn’t know what he will do if it stops. Hydra never taught him how to save a life, just how to end one, and all the stuff he knew before is jumbled up.

And maybe the Avengers will come to find him kneeling over Clint’s body, surrounded by other dead bodies. Just another day in the life of the Winter Soldier.

He shakes his head. If Clint dies… he could run. He would look guilty, but he’s not made to be sentimental. Dead is dead.

He doesn’t want Clint to die.

Iron Man arrives first, in a whoosh of red and gold and blue, blue lights. Bucky wants to gape at the suit, but there are a million reasons why this is not the time.

The face plate flips up as Iron Man extends his hands to attack.

“Well, I gotta say, this is not what I was expecting when William Tell sent out his SOS. Friend or Foe, Sergeant Frosty?”

“He needs medical assistance,” Bucky says.

“I can see that, Super Buck. What I was asking was: are you gonna let me over there to give him some?”

“You’re not a medical professional.”

“I’ve got enough medical training to use a syringe, and the suit’s equipped with med kits. Your basic epinephrine, blood transfusion, fluids. Everything a growing Hawkling needs. So can I come over there and rescue your snuggle bunny?”

Bucky considers him for a moment, then nods. That’s enough for Stark who… steps out of the suit. It unfolds around him and he turns back to retrieve the med kit from a panel that pops open. Under the suit he’s dressed in a business suit, which has wrinkled, but he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t pay any attention to the bodies around them either.

They shift Clint down onto the ground, Bucky keeping his hand clamped firmly to the wound, and Stark sets about stabilising him. Bucky watches every move he makes, but he seems competent enough, his hands moving as though he’s done this before.

The sun is setting and, as useful as Stark’s being, there’s no way Clint’s going to be okay as the temperature starts dropping. The Iron Man suit’s very flashy and futuristic, but it doesn’t exactly come with a passenger seat.

“Give me your arm,” Stark says, holding out his hand. Bucky looks down at where it’s holding Clint’s blood inside his body, then back up.

“Not that one – though believe me, I’d love a date sometime, the neural interface they must have used is – no, give me your other arm, Snowball. Your real-boy arm. Come on, I’ve got all the Avengers blood types on record. Or, rather, JARVIS has…”

“Indeed, sir,” the Iron Man suit says, in a British accent that could actually cut glass. “Agent Barton is O negative.”

“Universal donor, but useless recipient,” Stark comments, as though the blood type is a personal failing. “My blood type is… uh…”

“A positive, sir,” JARVIS replies.

“So, I’m no good for him. You, on the other hand, if your version of the serum is anything like Steve’s, it should mean your blood – no matter what your original blood type was – won’t be rejected.”

“B”, “Bucky says. “Blood type B.”

“Sergeant Barnes is correct, sir. That is the blood type listed in his military record,” the hollow suit confirms. It’s like a fucking ghost is possessing it.

“Right, J. But through the magic of mad science, war crimes, and unethical, non-consensual human experimentation, we have _you_.”

“My serum ain’t exactly the same as Steve’s, far as I can tell,” Bucky says.

“Well, hopefully it’s good enough,” Stark says. “Not like we’ve got much of a choice. I was at a conference in Austria, so I managed to get here reasonably fast, but Cap and his spider friend are looking for you in South America. The quinjet is still –“

“One hour away, sir. Currently incoming at Mach 6.”

“-making good time, but do you really think he can last another hour without blood?”

Bucky looks at Clint. Beneath the tan, even in the sunset, he’s pale.

“Now I’m not going to ask you what sort of super-secret sniper bonding thing you two have been up to. None of my business and I honestly don’t want to know about the mating habits of the common Hawkeye, but from the way you were re-enacting Moulin Rouge over there, something tells me you don’t want him dead.”

Bucky’s already holding out his arm. Stark is wasting time.

“You sure this ain’t gonna hurt him?”

“I’m sure it’s his best bet,” Stark says. “But I’ve seen him get up after worse. He might not be a super soldier, but he’s harder to kill than a cockroach.”

The cold of the alcohol wipe is replaced by the stab of the needle. It takes Stark a few seconds to get the blood flow going, but then Bucky’s connected to Clint by a thin red line of tubing.

“You okay there, Frosty?” Stark asks. Bucky nods. “OK. We’ll keep you attached for… how fast does this usually work, J?”

“The average person takes between 5 and 10 minutes to donate 1 pint of blood, sir.”

“Assuming your circulatory system is more efficient, I guess we’re looking at stopping in ten minutes at most,” Stark says. Bucky gives him a flat look.

“I can give more than that,” he says. “I can continue operating with up to 60% blood loss.” Stark blinks at him, then shakes his head.

“Ignoring the frankly terrifying implications of that delightful statement – I do not want to know how they tested that – I’m not _actually_ an evil scientist, no matter what my Wikipedia page might say. And I’m not keen to follow in Hydra’s not-so-illustrious footsteps.”

“Seven minutes remaining, sir.”

“Gottit, J.” Stark says before turning back to Bucky. “So Cap’s coming. Are you planning to stick around, because if so then I’m gonna need some time to prepare for the puppy-dog eyes.”

Bucky considers it for a second. His plan to stay below the radar has pretty much failed by now. He’s been dragged in, thanks to Clint. But it’s strange. He doesn’t feel the same as he did before, but he doesn’t feel as hollow as he did in the tiny apartment in Romania. He has… goals. He has wants.

He wants Clint to stay alive. He wants a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes with crispy bacon. He wants a shower. Wants Clint in that shower. He wants to get a closer look at the Iron Man suit. He wants to see Steve.

He wants to see Steve. Wants to talk to him. How long as it been since he spoke to someone who…

“I’m staying,” he says.

“OK. I’ll get the ball rolling, then. Call my people.”

“What?” Bucky asks.

“We’ve got a decent case. I mean you were a prisoner of war, brainwashed, probably some form of Stockholm syndrome in there, torture, the works. My legal team is good. By the time they’ve finished, you’ll probably have medals rather than handcuffs.”

“I don’t… No medals.” He doesn’t need to say that he doesn’t deserve them, he meets Stark’s eyes and he sees the understanding there.

“So just truth, justice, freedom and the American way, gottit.” Stark pulls a phone from his pocket and hits a button.

“Jennifer! Just the person I wanted to talk to. Remember that little project we were talking about last week?”

As Stark moves away to talk to, presumably, his law team, Bucky realises that it’s possible he doesn’t _know_.

He looks down at Clint, who looks a little less pale, and he wonders whether he should say something. But his eyes latch onto that thin red thread connecting them.

Later. There will be time for that later, when Clint is awake and he’s seen Steve. He’s not going to risk Clint’s life on the vagaries of Stark’s temper.

Stark tries to engage him in conversation a couple of times, but refuses to be deterred from stopping the blood transfusion.

They’re both sitting by Clint, keeping him warm, when Bucky hears the engines.

He stays stock still as the lights of the quinjet appear and find them. His heart rate is up, but he doesn’t move as the quinjet lands, or as the ramp descends and figures run down it. They pause for a moment, taking in the scene, until Stark stands up and beckons them over.

“Come on, tell me you’ve got the med lab set up.”

“Yeah,” says the guy with the wings. Sam Wilson, Bucky remembers Clint saying. “Is that Barton?”

The red head – Natasha – the Black Widow, is at Clint’s side in seconds, eyeing Bucky like he’s a particularly dangerous dog.

“Did you do this?” she asks. He doesn’t even see the knife until it’s already at his throat.

“The Snowman over there’s been nothing but helpful,” Tony says. “We did a transfusion – approximately four pints.”

“And he’s still conscious?” Wilson says. He follows Tony over to Clint’s side, giving Bucky a flat look followed by a firm nod. A ceasefire, Bucky supposes.

“We’ve got some candy bars on the jet to get your blood sugar up,” he says.

“I’m good; help Clint,” Bucky tells him, because they’re here, but nobody’s doing anything.

“Clint,” the Black Widow says thoughtfully, the knife disappearing, her head cocked to one side. She nods and then she’s all business. “Wilson, grab his feet. Tony, find us the nearest secure hospital.”

“Already done. The co-ordinates are in the quinjet. Ready when you are.”

Bucky trails after them, unwilling to be any further from Clint than he must.

They pass Steve, still frozen on the ramp, and Bucky drags his eyes away from Clint’s still form (far too still) to look at Steve. His mouth’s ajar and he’s looking at Bucky as… well, as if he’s seen a ghost.

The distance between them gapes. Steve’s in full Captain America uniform and Bucky is once again reminded of how he has never been good enough to call this man his friend. And the decades that have separated them have only made the gap wider.

But it’s not like he doesn’t know he’s a selfish bastard. And what does it matter what you deserve when you’re given it. Because Steve wants to know him, and he wants to know Steve, fill in the gaps that he knows he still has. So he reaches out with his metal hand, without even realising it, and pats Steve on his shoulder, the same way he has done a hundred times before.

“Shut your mouth, Stevie, or you’ll be catchin’ flies,” he says. “You coming, or what?”

Steve closes his mouth and looks at him, then beams, like Bucky’s just handed him the keys to Fort Knox, and nods.

“I’m coming,” he says.

They walk into the quinjet together.

*

Stark’s lawyers are as good as he says they are. Bucky has been remanded into Avengers custody pending the results of what seems to be a lot of behind the scenes legal drama. Apparently, they’re hoping to clear all of this up without the rigmarole of a trial. Something about it being a PR nightmare to put a photogenic ex-POW on the stand. Bucky doesn’t try to get involved. Whatever happens to him is going to happen now.

Mostly it just means that there’s always one of the Avengers in the room with him.

Dr Banner is both the best and the most unnerving, because Bucky _knows_ that this is a threat he cannot take down, but Banner’s presence is surprisingly soothing. He hums to himself as he checks over Clint – which is where they are right now, in Clint’s hospital room in the tower, waiting for him to wake up.

It has been almost two days. Steve has been in and out, but seems to work out that Bucky’s not in a talking mood. The Black Widow does her turn at Bucky sitting, but maybe she’s more there for Clint. She watches Bucky though, her eyes never leaving him, and he wonders what she sees.

Stark does his time too, always with a tablet in his hand, swiping this way and that, answering some phone calls and generally ignoring everything that’s going on in the rest of the room.

Bucky doesn’t mind so much, he’s not leaving this seat until he knows whether Clint’s going to be okay.

He’s been sitting writing in a new notebook since he got here. It’s not just the memories of long ago he’s writing now, it’s other things too. He writes about the look on Clint’s face right after they’d kissed the first time. He writes about how it feels to see Stevie again. He writes about how he’s never felt warmer than when Clint’s curled up against him. He lost his memories once, he’s going to keep them with him now, no matter what. There are a lot of things he never wants to forget.

It’s a strange sort of twist of nature, that he feels as though the world has opened up so wide that he could get lost in it at the exact same time that he’s suddenly confined to one small room.

All the time he was in Europe, the world seemed small, like there was just this little bubble where he was, but now there are people and places and legal battles going on, and he feels dizzy from the size of it all.

If he could go back to a tiny hotel room in Eastern Europe, curled against each other under the blankets, he would. But at the same time, he knows it’s a foolish wish. It was always going to end.

There’s a rustle of movement from the bed, and Dr Banner looks up, Bucky follows his gaze to see Clint squinting down at him.

“Did we get the bad guy?” he asks.

“You did,” Dr Banner replies. “Or, Sergeant Barnes did. The Slovakia authorities aren’t very impressed with your methods, but it turns out that you did Interpol a favour, so no one’s complaining too bad.”

“Go team,” Clint says, lifting a hand slightly before grimacing. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“You were shot,” Bucky says. “And then you blew everything up. Where the fuck did you get a grenade?”

“Found it while I was escaping,” Clint says, moving his shoulders in something that could be considered a shrug, if you squinted. “Thought it might come in useful.”

“It came in useful,” Bucky agrees. “But maybe next time tell me you’ve got a grenade before you throw it?”

“Gotcha,” Clint agrees, humming and closing his eyes. “Hey, Bruce. Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Clint,” Banner says, smiling a little.

“Don’t suppose you could give us the room?” Clint asks. Banner looks between them curiously.

“Sergeant Barnes is supposed to be supervised by an Avenger at all times.”

“What am I?” Clint asks. Banner huffs.

“I think they meant an Avenger who was fit and not high on pain medication,” Dr Banner says. Clint just smiles. “Fine, but I’ll be outside.” He turns to Bucky and stares at him meaningfully, and Bucky has a very vivid idea of exactly what the Hulk could choose to do to him if he wished.

“Bye doc,” Clint says. Banner waves his fingers, frowning, but he does leave, shutting the door behind him. “Alone at last,” Clint says, his grin changing to a leer. “Wanna come over here.”

“You’re in a hospital bed,” Bucky points out. “You’re on pain medication. You almost died. I had to give you four pints of blood.”

“Ooh,” Clint says. “Does that mean I’ve got the super soldier serum now?”

“Enough to make your healing a bit easier,” Bucky says, “But not enough that it’ll stay.”

“Ah well, guess we can’t all be super soldiers or you guys wouldn’t be special anymore,” Clint says.  “So where are you off to next?” he asks. Bucky blinks.

“Hopefully not jail,” he says slowly. “Stark’s working something out.”

“Tony’s always working something out,” Clint says, waving his hand vaguely. “S’what happens when you’re richer than shit. But seriously, when it’s all sorted, where you thinking of going?” Bucky stares at him, and Clint’s smile fades a bit “It’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me. I mean, I get it. You don’t want people coming after you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says. Clint blinks at him, eyes wide.

“But… you didn’t want to see Steve.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to deal with not being who I used to be. Steve and I have gotta have some conversations, but I want to talk to him.” He ducks his head. “It’s good to see him.”

“Right,” Clint agrees. “Yeah, of course. I’m happy for you. Glad I could be of assistance and all that.”

Bucky looks up again sharply, Clint is avoiding his gaze.

“And fuck knows what you’d end up doing to yourself if I left you alone,” he says. Clint’s eyes pull back to his. “I mean, last time I let you out of my sight, you almost died. Think we’d both be better off if I stuck close.”

“How close?” Clint asks. His voice is a little tentative, a little croaky.

“Pretty close,” Bucky says. He reaches out. In this bigger, brighter world, it seems like a more dangerous thing to take Clint’s hand. It’s warm in his. He slides one finger up his wrist to feel his pulse, in time with the heart monitor to the side. It’s strong and steady. He slowly leans forwards and presses his lips to the back of Clint’s fingers. “As close as you’ll let me.”

Clint looks shocked, but he’s smiling, and Bucky’s taking that as a good sign.

“Seriously?” Clint asks.

“Yeah… you’ve kind of grown on me, Barton.” They stare at each other for a moment and Bucky doesn’t know how to break the silence. It stretches between them.

“I have a suite… in this tower,” Clint says, the words bursting out of his mouth.

“Yeah…” Bucky says.

“When I get out of this bed we should… break it in,” Clint suggests.

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few bits of other languages in here so, just for the record:  
> I murdered some Russian a bit.  
>  ~~воробейчик is, I think, Sparrow, with a diminutive ending. Bucky's intending it to be an insult, but Clint takes it as an endearment.~~  
>  ~~зимочка is Winter, again with a diminutive, that Clint means both as an endearment and as an insult because he's like that.~~ Edited to be a bit more natural, thanks to [rakscha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rakscha/pseuds/rakscha). Thank you!  
>  Holló should mean Raven in Hungarian. It's more of a title than a name.  
> (If anyone who actually speaks either of these languages wants to correct me, please do. this is a combination of Google translate and half an hours research into Russian diminutive endings)
> 
> Also, the song that Clint's singing in the shower (off key and loudly because he has no shame and also no hearing aids at this point) is supposed to be Minnie the Moocher, which has a call and response scat section in it. It was first released in 1931, so I figured that Bucky and Steve had probably heard it when they were younger.


End file.
